


All These Things That I've Done

by Ewebie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "The Injury", Angst, Deaths, Doctor John, F/M, Guilt, Hurt, John-centric, Jolto, Kid John, M/M, Return to London, Self-Hatred, Teen John, Uni John, Violence, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How <i>Everything</i> is always John Watson's fault.</p><p>A study of John Watson's life before Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What a Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr prompt discussing this:
> 
> Sherlock: John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so… is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fall in love with conforms to that pattern?  
> John: …But she wasn’t supposed to be like that…. why is SHE like that?  
> Sherlock: Because…. you chose her.  
> John: Why is everything… always… MY FAULT?! 
> 
> Realizing that we know so very little about John Watson pre-Sherlock. That we don't know what his childhood was like, his parents, his adolescence, his medical training, his service. Sure we know he was shot and invalided home, but how did he end up in Afghanistan getting shot?
> 
> Now. I'm all for angst and a little bit of smut, so there is both, but this is not a kind or easy work to read. This (similar to Obsidian Fury) is really looking at how John Watson shatters. It's all the cracks in his life that gather en mass to build the rage and buttoned-up stodginess when Sherlock is thrown into his path. Please read the trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter (please, please, please). This is dark and violent and horrific and feely. If you can last... there is a bit of smut too...
> 
> Big Plan: Roughly 8 chapters (maybe 9... maybe 10...) - Updating on Wednesdays.
> 
> Ch 1 TW's:  
> \- Violence against children  
> \- Child abuse  
> (If you feel I need to add any tws, please let me know)
> 
> As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent)
> 
> **"We've got these chains that hang around our necks, people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath. Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same; when temptation calls, we just look away."**  
>  _~ What a Good Boy, Barenaked Ladies_

 

[[Cover art](https://41.media.tumblr.com/2f0e9f49fb6051d10895d8108d2198c0/tumblr_nn2ebn00To1rrsyo1o1_r1_500.png) by [Watsonsdick](http://watsonsdick.tumblr.com/)]

When you’re young, you can be convinced of many, many things. Santa Claus is real. No one truly knows how many licks it takes to reach the center of a tootsie roll pop. Only _you_ can prevent forest fires. Freddos cost 10p. Whisper ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in a mirror and she’ll appear, and then what? Murder you? Probably.

But at ten years old, John knew, perhaps at far too young an age, that the real world was scarier than stories; that anthropomorphic animals meant that adults were trying to get you to behave; that anyone with a shred of will power would find that it takes roughly four hundred and fifty licks to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop; that even the best things go up in price; and that a fat, rosy-cheeked man making a ‘Ho Ho Ho’ sound meant he had roughly three seconds to be out of arm-span before getting clocked. John knew that. Down to the millisecond, down to the centimeter, down to the deepest corner of preternaturally matured heart. And any time he didn’t elude a meaty fist, it was his fault.

_You know how he gets, John._

_Don’t cry, Johnny. Please don’t cry. He’ll hear you._

_Runt like that wouldn’t be mine. You look like the milkman._

_Why do you always have to provoke him, John?_

_Why’d you lie? I broke that mug, Johnny._

_Ungrateful little shit._

_He may have overreacted, but couldn’t you have finished with the yard in the afternoon like you said?_

_You’re smarter than that, Johnny. Just stay out of his way._

_Stop whimpering and take it like a man._

It was always his fault. For not being smart enough. For not being fast enough. For not being man enough. His fault. And he knew better. He knew. And yet somehow in his short decade of life, he also knew it wasn’t right. It was wrong. The adults were wrong. And it needed to stop. He knew what would happen. He knew. And he did it anyway.

“Get me another beer.”

John wrinkled his nose, his tongue trapped between his teeth as he scratched out a longhand answer in his notebook. He liked math. Logical, predictable, replicable, followed an exact set of rules that can be learned and performed, and eventually maybe perfected. And he was good at math. Even in the abstract. For example, right then, John was calculating exactly how many seconds he had to be out of reach before he got a smack.

“Did you hear me? I said get me another beer, dammit!”

“I heard you,” John answered calmly without looking up from his homework. “But I was thinking you ought to get off your fat arse and fetch it yourself.”

Ten seconds. The shock of his insult would buy him a bit of time.

Harry’s head shot up from across the kitchen table, a look of abject horror on her face. “Johnny…” she whispered, pushing away from the table. He’d always managed to terrify her more than John. But she never got hit. She put her book down cautiously.

No. John was ready for this. You had to stand up to bullies. He felt almost serene. Six seconds.

The old man spluttered, his face turning a strange shade of reddish-purple. “You thankless little mutt!” he bellowed, pushing himself out of the armchair.

Three seconds. He should probably run. Probably.

Harry was shaking. “Johnny, go,” she hissed.

“You’d better run,” he snapped, lunging toward the table.

Take it like a man. Wasn’t that what he was always telling him? He almost laughed. Man up, Watson. John twisted in his chair, tilted his head, and gave a tight-lipped smile. “No thanks.”

The closed fist struck him high on right cheek, and John tumbled off the chair, unconscious before he hit the hardwood floor.

The first thing John noticed as he started to wake was the sound of Harry crying. It was distant, muffled; maybe she was crying into her pillow and he was back on the floor of her room. That’s what normally happened when he wasn’t fast enough; the times he did decide to run. The next thing he noticed was the icy, stabbing pain coming from the side of his face. Oh. Oh God. Jesus that hurt! It was almost so cold it was burning.

He winced. Mistake! His whole face went up in flames, lancing darts deep into his skull. Don’t move then, if it hurts so damn bad. He tried for a shallow breath and was met with another crushing wave of pain in his chest. He whimpered and tried to curl into himself. That’s when his right arm protested with a nauseating pulse of agony. Clearly he was dying. Everything hurt. Everything. My fault. All my fault.

“J-Johnny?” Harry. She sounded closer. She was still crying.

Small, gentle fingers stroked through his hair. It was calming. Soothing. His breath hitched when he tried to sigh and the cycle of movement and pain started all over again, leaving him a trembling ball on the floor. It was definitely the floor. Still in the kitchen.

“No, don’t move,” Harry hushed him. “Don’t move.” She continued to pet his hair, stroking her palm carefully down his back as well. “It’ll be ok.”

He couldn’t tell how long he stayed there, shaking, twitching, trying to breathe through the drowning agony. But eventually, he risked opening his eyes. Sparks of flashing neon littered his vision and he clamped his eyes shut, trying to quell the nausea. The next time he tried, the light, the dim light of the kitchen lamp sent new darts of pain into the back of his head, but he pushed through it, struggling to bring anything into focus. It was blurry. Everything he tried to see was blurry. He blinked away volumes of tears before he realized he was crying. Not Harry, John. John was crying. He let out a miserable groan.

“Shh,” Harry rubbed his back. “Please. Johnny. It’ll be ok.”

He pushed back the tears, choked down the pain, and curbed the shaking to just lie still. Lie on the kitchen floor, his head cradled in his sister’s lap. The lights turned funny again, flashing white and yellow and blue. It made him feel sick, and the idea of vomiting seemed horribly painful.

“They’re in here!”

John winced. Why did people need to shout? His head was throbbing already. Shouting and stomping. He’d have gotten a wallop for being that loud. Definitely my fault. Deserved it.

“Jesus…”

“Don’t touch him,” Harry snapped, her arms closing around his middle.

John bit back a scream and clenched his left hand in Harry’s trousers, giving into the urge to curl into the fetal position. Everything hurt.

“I won’t.” Calm voice, soft voice, unfamiliar. “I won’t take him away from you, I promise.”

Harry loosened her grip enough for John to shudder through some tenuous breaths.

“He’s hurt, Harry.” The voice was somehow soothing. “I just need to have a look at him. If we need to move him anywhere, you go with him. Alright?”

No to moving. Moving was painful. Don’t move.

Harry’s fingers went back to his hair. “He hit him,” she said quietly.

“Who did?”

“Dad.”

“Can we roll him onto his back?” John tensed but there were hands supporting the movement. Had to be more than two. More than two and Harry. He whimpered, his fingers twitching against his jumper as his injured arm was tenderly placed across his chest. “Your dad did this?”

Harry sniffed.

“Has he done this before?”

“Not… Not this bad.” The fingers running through his hair hesitated. “Johnny… talked back.”

“M’sorry,” John croaked. Oh that was sore too. His voice was scratchy and wheezy, and even pushing the air out for the one word was murder on his chest.

“It’s alright, John. You’re safe.”

Harry sniffed louder, her hand starting to shake outright where it rested against his scalp. “Why didn’t you just run?”

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “It was my fault.”

“John, can you open your eyes?”

He made a noise high in his throat. “The lights hurt.”

There were shuffling noises and shade fell across his eyelids. “Try, please?”

He did. The lights were gone, or rather blocked by something; they flickered on, but distantly at the edge of his awareness. He blinked up at the woman’s face. She must have been the one talking. He swallowed and tilted his chin up a bit. She was wearing a uniform. He tried to furrow his brow, but his face lit up with pain again.

“Just lay still, yeah?” She said, her eyes flitting over his face, his arm, his body. She grimaced. “Harry,” she rested a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “I think John needs to go to the hospital.”

From his spot on the floor, he could only see the underside of Harry’s chin, but he saw it quiver. Harry nodded sharply.

“Do you want to ride with him in the ambulance?”

Harry nodded again.

“Ok.” The woman gave Harry’s shoulder a squeeze. “My friends here are going to get John on the trolley and then into the ambulance. Do you want to go wait in the ambulance now?”

“No!” He didn’t want to, but he whimpered again. He didn’t want Harry to go. She couldn’t go. Harry looked down at him, her eyes still full of tears that refused to fall. “Don’t leave me.” He hated it. He hated how small he sounded. He hated that he couldn’t breathe. He hated that he was crying again. “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“Shh, John,” the woman’s hand swept the hair back from his forehead. “It’s alright. She doesn’t have to go.” She looked at Harry. “We can stand over here if you’d like. You can hold my hand. I think it’s going to be sore for John to be moved, but we can be right here.”

“Please,” John begged. “It’s all my fault, Harry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, John. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.” The woman pushed up to standing and held a hand out for Harry. Harry took it and stood, moving a few feet away. Then there were two new people, both in green uniforms, stooping by his side.

“What’s the tally, ma’am?”

“Face, ribs, right arm at least. He’s been moving, so don’t collar him.” The woman’s arm wrapped around Harry’s shoulders in a protective way.

“We wouldn’t have one small enough.”

“Alright, little man?”

“We’re gonna move you, don’t move yourself, yeah?”

One of them took John’s left hand to cross the arm over his right. “I’m going to lift your head and shoulders. Billy is going to lift your legs.”

“We’re going to do all the work, mate. Don’t help us, don’t squirm?”

John gave a tentative nod. And he was scooped off the floor and settled on a plastic mattress. It hurt. It hurt terribly. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his arm hurt, his face hurt, his back hurt, his heart hurt. He shivered a few times as the paramedics started taking his vitals. But what hurt the most was turning his head to see Harry sobbing against the woman’s shoulder. And John was nearly positive he could see a handprint on her cheek. He’d hit Harry. The son of a bitch had hit her. Never before…

He shuddered. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He shook so hard his teeth chattered. The paramedics tucked a blanket around him. “It’ll be ok, little man.” Then they were moving.

The sting of crisp night air on his damp face was startling, rousing. And John saw everything. His eyes were opened and he saw. Saw the old man cuffed and loaded into the back of a panda car. Saw the uniforms milling around their front garden. Saw the ambulance and the unmarked car. Saw the neighbors standing on their doorstep looking sad and worried. But before he could collect two breaths of fresh air, the gurney was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

“What happened? Where are my babies?”

Mom. She wasn’t going to be pleased.

“What is going on?”

She sounded hysterical.

“Where are you taking him?!”

Him: the old man.

“Harry!”

Harry flinched on the bench seat next to John’s gurney, and the nice woman petted Harry’s head and whispered, “Stay here. You’re safe.”

“John?! JOHN!”

He met her eyes briefly. They were red-rimmed and bleary and darker than he’d ever seen them before.

“John! Did you do this? What did you do, John?!”

The woman stepped out of the ambulance and stood between the vehicle and their mother. “Mrs. Watson?” Her voice trailed off. John couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“I’m going to give you some medicine, little man.” The paramedic eased John’s left arm from under the blanket. “I know it must hurt right now. Just a small pinch, and you’ll feel loads better, yeah?”

John nodded solemnly.

“Ok, here we go.”

John didn’t flinch at the stabbing sensation. All things considered, it wasn’t that bad in comparison. Then his arm went heavy, his legs, his spine, and he felt as though he was sinking into the gurney. The pain eased and a numbing fatigue settled in its place. It was more comfortable.

“Feel better?”

John gave a small nod.

“We’re going to grab the kit from inside and then I think we’ll go.”

He gave another nod as paramedics disappeared out the open doors of the ambulance. “Harry?” he reached out for his sister. She caught his hand and tucked it back against his side, her fingers wrapping around his palm. He turned slightly so he could see her face. “He hit you.”

Harry choked out a wet laugh. “Johnny.”

“I shouldn’t have done that with you home,” he whispered.

“You shouldn’t have done that at all.”

“I won’t let him hit you again.” Harry’s face blurred and John felt the oddly warm feeling of the medication wrap around his mind.

Harry took her fingers away and buried her face in her hands. “He kept kicking you,” she sobbed. “He wouldn’t stop. Just… kicked… I thought you were dead.”

John’s mouth settled into a clenched jaw with a pout. “Harry.”

“If the Williams hadn’t called the police…”

“Harry.” Lifting his arm was a challenge for how heavy it felt, but he managed to reach her shoulder. “If he touches you again, I’ll kill him.”

Harry stared at him, torn between wanting to believe him and the consequences of his conviction. Finally she gave him a small nod. “He won’t.”

“Mmn,” John nodded and closed his eyes. Suddenly the world seemed oddly fuzzy, a weird metallic taste filled his mouth as fresh sweat broke out across his brow. He winced as his stomach clenched.

“Johnny?”

He felt the roll of nausea as it tightened in the back of his throat and gut heaved. “Sick,” he gagged. He never knew where Harry had found the sick bucket, but as he retched and emptied his stomach contents, it was all neatly into the bin rather than the floor of the ambulance.

“Shit,” one of the paramedics swore.

“Goddammit, someone give that poor child some cyclizine.” Apparently even the kind lady would swear at times.

“Sorry, little man. Sorry.”

He felt another medication join the first and the nausea settled quickly. But the damage was done. Vomiting had triggered the pains in his head and chest all over again, and he was back to shivering and sweating and trying not to cry.

“Alright, Harry? Will we go?” The woman was back in the ambulance. John couldn’t be sure, but he thought Harry might have nodded. “Ok. I’ll come with you, if that’s ok. How’s he doing, lads?”

“He’s a tough wee nut.”

“Yup. Thirty year old trapped in a ten year old body, that one. But he’ll pull through.”

“Hear that, John?” He suspected the hand on his shoulder was the lady’s. “It’ll be ok. You’re going to be ok.”


	2. All the Things She Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 2 TW's:  
> \- Hospitals  
> \- Self-hate  
> \- Overdose  
> \- Physical violence  
> \- more rubbish Watson parenting  
> (If you feel I need to add any tws, please let me know)
> 
> Wednesdays are now, officially, ANGST WEDNESDAYS... Turns out I'm going to be closer to 10 chapters. How did I know I was heading that way. As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent)
> 
> **"When they stop and stare - don't worry me, 'cause I'm feeling for her what she's feeling for me. I can try to pretend, I can try to forget, but it's driving me mad, going out of my head...."**  
>  ~ All the Things She Said, Tatu

John chewed on his lower lip and turned the scrap of paper over in hand for the hundredth time that night. He should phone. He should. He could. She said if they ever needed anything…

He sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, rubbing the back of his neck with the indecision. Nothing was going to make tonight any better. Nothing was going to ease the guilt that tightened and clenched in his gut. He could have stopped this. He should have stopped it. If he had just… Only… He let out a small growl of frustration. What was he supposed to do?

_“Johnny, I think. I mean. You know… I… It’s…” Harry twisted her fingers in her lap. “You… I don’t know what you saw… But…”_

_John gave her wry smile and ducked his head. “But you and Layla are,” he cleared his throat. “More than friends?”_

_Harry gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah. I… I suppose, yeah.”_

_John felt a small blush touch his cheeks. “I sort of figured, you know, when I walked in and… You two were… Necking.”_

_“She’s… I mean… I think. She’s my girlfriend.”_

_John furrowed his brow. “So…”_

_“So…” Harry sighed, picking at her bedspread. “I mean… Johnny, you’re… you’re my brother. I don’t…”_

_He looked up, half his face pinching. “What?”_

_“It’s just…”_

_“It’s fine.” He gave her the most serious expression he could muster. “It’s all fine.”_

_“So…” Harry’s face looked the tiniest bit hopeful. “You don’t mind, then? If I’m… If I… I mean… I’m… Gay?”_

_“Harry,” he set a hand on her knee. “Why would I mind?”_

_She shrugged. “The lads at school…”_

_“They can all sod right off.”_

_“Sod off?” she snorted._

_“It’ll be alright, Harry.” He patted her knee. “I promise.”_

_Harry gave him a sad smile. “Alright.”_

_“Is that all? You were so serious. I thought you were going to tell me that you’d lost a leg or sommat.”_

_“Is that all?!” Harry reached across to ruffle his hair. “It’s a bit of a big deal, Johnny.”_

_“I know,” he sighed. “I mean, not to me. But…”_

_“Mom,” Harry finished for him._

_“I mean, if dad was still here…”_

_Harry scoffed. “If he were still here, I’d be long gone.”_

_John knew he didn’t manage to keep the hurt from his face._

_“She may not take it terribly well,” Harry added almost absently._

_John frowned. “No.” They sat, letting the silence fill the room for a moment. “Do you… Do you have to tell her, Harry?”_

_“You want me to lie?” Harry narrowed her gaze._

_“No!” John pulled back in surprise. “I just mean… I dunno…” He looked at her miserably. “School’s out in a month, and you’ll be at Uni in the fall. Would it be easier to… When you have somewhere else to go?”_

_Harry swallowed. “You think she’s going to kick me out.”_

_John nodded._

_“Maybe she won’t,” Harry offered._

_“Do you want me to…”_

_“Nah.” Harry shook her head. “I need to talk to her alone.”_

John rested his forehead in his hands, the awkward din of the A&E carrying on around him. He noticed the footsteps just outside the cubical, heard hesitation before the curtain was pulled back.

The doctor forced a smile that wasn’t as reassuring as he’d aimed for. “Heya.” There was a long uncomfortable silence and John wondered if there was something he should be saying. “No sign of your mum yet, then?”

John shook his head. “They… We can’t get her on the phone.”

“They’ll find her.”

John gave a nod that was anything but reassured. “Is… How um…” He looked back Harry before ducking his head.

“I want to tell you that she’ll be fine, but we don’t know yet. It’s a waiting game right now.”

John nodded miserably.

“Do you know what happened?”

What happened? “It was my fault,” he whispered.

_“Harriet Watson! You are not. And you will not!”_

_“This is who I am, mum!” Harry barked back._

_“I did not raise you to be… That!”_

_John flinched at the venom in his mother’s voice._

_“To be what, mum? Gay? You can’t even say it!”_

_“It’s wrong!”_

_“Then I’m wrong!”_

_“You’re just confused.”_

_“I’m not confused!” Harry shouted. “I love her!”_

_“No. You’re young. This is a phase. You’ll… You’ll grow out of it.”_

_“Mum… You won’t even look at me…”_

_“What would your father say?”_

_“Fuck what he’d say!”_

_“What kind of example are you setting for John?”_

_“For John? John doesn’t care! He’s happy for me!”_

_John couldn’t sit by and listen to it any more. He’d promised Harry, but he just couldn’t. He eased his bedroom door open and tread silently down the stairs._

_“This is because your father is gone. God, what did I do to deserve this?”_

_“It’s not about YOU, mum!”_

_“I won’t have that in my house!”_

_“Then you won’t have me in your house!” Harry snapped._

_“Get out!”_

_“Mum!” Harry pled._

_“Get OUT!” His mother screamed._

_John rounded the corner just in time to see his mother lash out. There wasn’t much force behind the slap, but the scorn of it was worse than the blow. Harry brought her hand up to her cheek, tears welling in her eyes. John froze. Stared. “Mum,” John breathed. He’d promised Harry that he’d never let him strike her again, but their mum? She looked startled to see him there. Her eyes were blazing, her face flushed. “Mum, what did you do?”_

_Her eyes flit between Harry and himself for a moment. “John…”_

_He shook his head slowly, stepping forward to put himself between his mother and his sister. Harry glared at their mother as she stooped to pick up her knapsack. “Goodbye, mum.”_

_“Harry,” John turned. “Don’t.”_

_At fifteen, he was already as tall as she was, which wasn’t exactly a towering height. But where he was still a bit awkward, his body a bit too big for his control, she was fully comfortable in her movements, almost graceful. She gave him a sad smile and ruffled his hair. “Bye, Johnny.”_

John shook his head. “She was supposed to be staying with a friend. I was home when she…”

“You called the ambulance.”

John nodded.

“Do you have any idea if she took anything?”

“No.”

“Her friend?”

John sighed. “I don’t have her number. And even if I could contact her, I don’t think she’d tell me anything. Is it bad to hope it’s only alcohol?”

“No.” The doctor gave him a funny look.

“What?”

“You just, you look familiar.”

John eyed the man. “I… I don’t…”

“Oh,” the doctor’s face shifted from one of tight concern to absolute understanding and sympathy. “I… How’s the arm?”

John’s brow furrowed. “My arm?”

“I was on duty, must have been a few years now. You were…” The doctor made a vague gesture with his hand. “Growing like a weed now, eh?”

John gave a cautious smile. “A short weed, maybe.”

“Is there… Should I call someone other than your mum?”

It took everything he could not to cringe. “No.”

The doctor nodded. “I’ll… I’ll come back when we know more.”

“Thanks,” John whispered as the curtain dropped back into place in the man’s wake.

_“J-Johnny?”_

_“Harry?” Why was she speaking so softly? “Harry, what’s wrong?”_

_“I… s’thing… wh-the booze.“_

_“Harry, where are you?”_

_“Layla…” There was a violent retching sound._

_“Harry!” John shouted down the phone. “Harry, tell me where you are!”_

_“Dunno… I… There’s a tree.” Her speech was thick and slurred. “Mmn tired.”_

_“Harry, please,” John begged._

_“How… Johnny you promised…”_

_“Harry,” John’s voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. Just tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. I can fix it. I’ll fix this.”_

_“You can’t fix everyone.”_

_“Harry…”_

_“Hm… nap… I. Maybe I’ll just…”_

_“Harry!” John snapped. “You tell me where you are right now!”_

_“Pub. Next to church.” She made a gagging noise. “Near sc-school.”_

_“Harry, I need to call an ambulance.”_

_“Don’t go.”_

_“I’m coming to you. Harry, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The school was only a ten minute walk from home. If he ran… If he ran, he could beat the ambulance. “Harry, just hang on.”_

_“Don’t go, Johnny.”_

_“I’ll be there, Harry. I just need to hang up the phone. I’ll be there.”_

_“Johnny… don’t.”_

He never should have let her come out to mum on her own. He should have been there, in the room with her. He shouldn’t have let her leave. He should have begged her to stay. Begged his mum. They could have fixed it together.

He reached up and cautiously took one of her hands in his. It was clammy, too cold, too still. It took nearly all he had not to cry. My fault. “Harry, you have to wake up, yeah?” He dropped his head. “I know I fucked up, Harry. Mum was wrong. You know that. And I know I promised that everything would be ok. And it can be. I… I’m sorry, Harry.” He heaved a shuddering sigh. “You promised too, you know. You promised you wouldn’t leave me. Don’t… Don’t leave me all alone. Please.”

One of the nurses came in to do a set of vitals and gave John a weak smile. “She’s tough, kiddo. She’ll pull through.”

John flinched at the pet name, but gave a small nod anyway.

“You don’t know where else your mum might be? She’s not at her work or home or…”

John sighed. “She’ll turn up.”

“Alright.”

“Do you?” He looked up at the nurse. “Could you stay here with her for a moment? I should… I need to make a phone call.”

“Sure.”

John gave Harry another long look and squeezed her hand. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He slipped out through the curtain and found the nearest payphone. He chewed on his lower lip, eyeing the piece of paper. She said he could call if they needed anything. This was… something. He dropped change into the phone and dialed the number.

“This is Clarkson.”

“Hi, uh… Look, I don’t know if you remember me, but this is John Watson. You… You said I could call if…”

“John, of course. Is something wrong?” her voice was as kind as he remembered.

“Yeah,” he said heavily. “Harry…” his voice cracked.

“Where are you?”

“At Uni hospital, in the A&E.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. “

“I…” he wet his lips. “Thank you.”

“John. Whatever happened, it’ll be ok.”


	3. Clumsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 3 TW's  
> \- Graphic description of injury  
> \- Self-hate  
> \- Physical violence  
> (If you feel I need to add any tws, please let me know)
> 
> Wednesdays are now, officially, ANGST WEDNESDAYS... Turns out I'm going to be closer to 11 chapters. How did I know I was heading that way. As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). I know this one is a bit on the shorter side, but trust me, the little happy feel you get at the end of this one is totally necessary to survive the one next week.
> 
>  
> 
> **"Throw away this very old shoelace; it tripped you again. Try and shrug it off, shrug it off, shrug it off. It’s only skin. Now you need to understand: there’s nothing fake about this..."**  
>  ~ Clumsy, Our Lady Peace

John dropped heavily onto the cold wooden bench. He hung his head, watching the muddy water drip from the ends of his shaggy, soaked hair to fall on the concrete floor between his feet. He didn’t bother with a towel. He couldn’t even bring himself to get his cleats off. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to shower. He didn’t deserve a warm wash right now. He scrubbed a damp palm across his face, wincing as it came away covered in muck. He was liberally coated with the sludge only produced by a thoroughly drowned pitch, and the chill of the air clung to his drenched, filthy kit. Thankfully, it seemed everyone else had left. No one was sticking around to celebrate this one.

“Hey, Cap’t, could’uv happened to any of us.”

John didn’t bother looking up. He shook his head slowly. “My fault, Bear.” One second, one fraction of a second when he wasn’t paying enough attention. That was all it took for a disaster to happen.

_Well done, Watson. He was our best scorer._

A meaty hand clapped his shoulder. “Chin up. Coulda been worse.”

John sighed heavily. Not really. Really, not at all. Mitchy would be lucky if he ever managed to walk without a limp now. “Mitchy’s done,” he said softly, peering up at the ox of a lad standing in front of him. “You get that, right?”

Bear crossed his arms. “Yeah, but he played one helluva match. And so did you. We get hurt, Cap’t. All the flipping time. It’s rugby. You just gotta get up and walk it off.”

John cringed and he quickly tried to hide the expression by studying the grass and mud caked to his shoes. Fucking short, stubby legs. Goddamned, worn out, treadless cleats. Sodding grassless bit of pitch. “Walk it off?” he croaked.

Bear had hands the size of trash can lids, so when he cuffed John across the back of the head, John nearly fell off the bench. He looked up startled and met Bear’s angry gaze. “Stop it.”

John clenched his jaw and glared back. “What the fuck, Bear?”

“Stop.”

John pushed up from the bench and gave Bear a forceful shove in the chest. “Fuck you!” He might as well have shoved the wall for all it did.

Bear snorted.

John saw red and threw a punch. If he was being honest with himself, he realized it was a horrible idea just before his right fist connected with Bear’s jaw. The impact shot down John’s forearm and he felt one of his knuckles give. Hopefully it was just a dislocation, but the pain somehow felt good. He’d heard Mitchy yelp in pain, and all he’d managed was a few scrapes and face full of mud.

Bear barely moved. He blinked once at John, then his brows slashed together as his eyes went dark. In a flash, John found himself slammed back into the cinderblock wall, one large palm pinning him in place and practically crushing the air from his chest. “No. Fuck you, Watson.”

_Fucking good job, Watson. You couldn’t keep your legs, so neither does he?_

John grit his teeth and glared.

“Everyone fucked up today. This one isn’t on you.”

John’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “No one else managed to break someone’s fucking femur!” Scrums late in a match were rough; everyone was tired, everyone had grudges forming, and everyone was hungry. Scrums in the lashing rain and wind where you can’t hear or see were dangerous. And John had felt his traction start to give. He’d tried to dig in. He’d given it everything he had. But the pools of water and slicked pitch and muck underfoot joined forces with a low blow to his back and he’d slipped. He was the first one that slipped. Mitchy was caught in the down-pile.

“You didn’t break it! Mitchy went down! We all fucking went down.”

_You’re about half of him, Watson. Get the fuck back out there and give me a reason not to throttle you. What the fuck do I tell his mother?_

He could actually still hear the sound. It was awful. The sound of a bone snapping was so unnatural that a body would attend to the noise over everything else. John snarled and tried to shove Bear away, but he couldn’t reach. “Get offa me!”

Bear ducked his head to glare at John, eye to eye. “I dropped you during that line-in, Cap’t. I fucking dropped you into a mud puddle. You got up and played on. Mitchy slipped in that scrum. He didn’t get up this time. It’s bad luck. It’s no one’s fault.”

“It’s my fucking fault!” John shouted back. “It’s so obviously my fault that even Coach knows it!”

“Coach is a toxic bag of dicks,” Bear barked. “He knows where his bread is buttered. And just because Mitchy’s mom is too dumb to know how disgusting he is, doesn’t mean you are.”

John slammed both of his fists into the wall next to his hips and let out an aimless roar of anger.

“We’re done now. This is it. Two more games and the season’s over. We go off to uni, and you know damn well that we’re not competing professionally after this. You didn’t rob Mitchy of anything.” Bear gathered a fist full of John’s jersey and practically bumped his forehead off of John’s with his proximity. “So stop being so damn dim.”

John felt the rage shuddering through his frame as he forced a smile at Bear. “Forgive me for thinking that walking is something people enjoy,” he sneered.

“Right,” Bear said simply. He caught John in a headlock and hauled him across the small change room into the showers. He had the decency to wait for the tap to run a bit warm before dragging John into the jet and holding him in place with large hands clamped on John’s upper arms. John glared at Bear from under the cascade of water. “You fucking stay there until that water runs clear.” Bear shook him for emphasis. “Wash it off. All of it.”

John pressed his eyes closed and dropped his head, letting the water run down the back of his neck and shoulders.

“All of it, Cap’t.” Bear loosened his grip. “Then change into something clean and dry and I’ll give you a lift out to the hospital.”

John swallowed. He’d have to face Mitchy sometime soon. Tell him how sorry he was, how badly he’d fucked up, how it was all his fault, how he’d make it up to him somehow, how sorry…

“John,” Bear gave him a gentle knock under the chin. “It’ll be alright.”

John took a deep breath through his nose, pulling his shoulders back. He gave Bear a meaningful look before nodding sharply.

“Idiot,” Bear muttered affectionately. “I’ll be out in the car.” Then he left John alone in the showers.


	4. Hear You Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 4 TW's  
> \- Graphic description of injury  
> \- Self-hate  
> \- Car Crash  
> \- Alcohol  
> \- Some all-around absent Watson parentage  
> (If you feel I need to add any tws, please let me know)
> 
> Wednesdays are now, officially, ANGST WEDNESDAYS. As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Once we're through with this, I will put up a playlist for this fic. As you may have noticed, all the chapters are songs... Sad and angsty songs... I picked them carefully.
> 
> **"And if you were with me tonight, I'd sing to you just one more time. A song for a heart so big, God wouldn't let it live..."**  
>  ~Hear You Me, Jimmy Eat World

John shifted uncomfortably against the pew. Suits never seemed to sit right on his shoulders and a tie made him feel a bit like he was being strangled. He took a deep breath, the smell of incense and flowers making him want to sneeze. Churches always had the weird smell of old flowers and incense, but this was new, fresh, and somehow painful. He sniffed reflexively, uncomfortably, angrily. Too many times in the past few years…

“John,” Mike nodded before sliding into the pew next to him. “Alright?”

John gave a sharp nod, but straightened his shoulders and continued to fix his stare ahead of him. God, he hated churches.

“You uh… You going to the grad party that Ron’s throwing on Saturday?” Mike gave a rather self-deprecating smile as John shook his head. “Yeah, no. Didn’t think so.”

“I don’t really feel like celebrating right now, Mike.” John set his jaw. If that was the last thing he said for the next few hours, he’d be lucky.

“No. No, I know.” Mike sighed and propped his forearms on bench in front of them. “Don’t blame you.”

John flinched. God, he hated people.

Mike shot him a worried glance. “No one blames you, John.”

He swallowed and kept his eyes fixed ahead.

_He squinted at her from across the table. “Come on, Kells. Stay in town tonight.”_

_She shook her head. “Gotta get home. My mum… You know.”_

_He blinked heavily. “Yeah. I know the thing.” He scratched his eyebrow with the back of his thumb before pulling out a £50 note and holding it out. “Taxi.”_

_She sighed as she stood. “Knock it off, John.”_

_“I just don’t want you to go,” he said softly._

_“Mea Culpa,” she said wryly._

_“I’ll walk you out,” he muttered, pushing himself out of the booth. The pleasant weight of the alcohol settled in his legs and he started counting the number of drinks they’d had. She hadn’t been doing rounds with the lads, but that they were a good four hours into the celebrations nagged at the back of his mind. The air was cool and crisp outside the pub and John sobered momentarily, the hazy warmth dissipating. “Kells,” he caught her elbow as she rummaged for her keys._

_She grinned at him. “You look like a teddy bear, John.” She ran a hand through his hair, setting it straight and mussing it further in equal measure._

_He huffed out a laugh and slid his arms around her waist. “Good for cuddles?”_

_“Mmn,” she hummed, leaning into him. He braced himself to keep from toppling them both over onto the pavement in his fuzzy state, but was instantly distracted by her lips brushing over his. “You’re perfect for cuddles.” Her nose nudged against his before she kissed him._

“She burned brightly. Like a firecracker: brilliant, colorful, loud, and fascinating. And gone too soon, leaving a hollow darkness that we feel might never be swayed.”

John blinked rapidly, clenching his fists at his sides.

“As many of you know, our family has had its fair share of struggles this past year. My wife, Kelly’s mother, has been fighting a battle against melanoma. She has been, in spite of the illness, a bright light for our family. Her love and strength has held us through her ups and downs. We… We hoped…,” his voice cracked as he looked at his wife in the front row, her wheelchair folded to the side. “We were so very proud of Kelly. Her graduation only five days from now. And her classmates, many of whom are here, have shared in her passion for these past six years.”

It took nearly everything John had not to hang his head in shame as Mr. McFadden gave him a look filled with sorrow. John felt the muscles of his face pull in pain.

“We… We will miss… We…” the man burst into tears.

_John groaned and clenched his fingers against her waist as she nipped at his lower lip. “Stay tonight,” he whispered as she pulled back._

_“John.”_

_“I’ll kip on the couch, just…” he rested his forehead against hers. “Stay in town. You won’t get in until ridiculously late. I’ll wake up early and take you out myself.”_

_She cupped his cheek in her palm and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I’ll be back on Monday.”_

_John sighed and nodded. “You want me to come with you?”_

_“Don’t be silly,” she slipped out of his hold, squeezing both of his hands in hers. “Enjoy the celebrations. God knows you’ve earned it.”_

_John felt himself blush, but tugged her back in to kiss her again. A small part of him wanted to stand there, necking like teenagers for a few minutes when she pulled back. The tips of her fingers stroked up his throat to the underside of his jaw and she smiled, thumbing away a smudge of her lipstick from his lower lip. “Take a cab, Kells,” he said softly._

_She laughed. “It’ll be fine.”_

_“Monday?” he asked hopefully._

_“Monday,” she nodded. Then she turned and headed down the street._

_John sighed heavily and crammed his hands into his pockets. “Fucking Monday,” he muttered._

_There was a low chuckle from somewhere behind him and he turned to find another classmate leaning against the wall of the pub, halfway through a cigarette. “Monday, eh?”_

_“Stuff it, Mike,” John muttered._

_“Oh come on, John.” Mike blew out a puff of smoke. “You’re a lucky bastard. Mac-Fad, John. The weekend isn’t going to kill you.”_

_John shook his head slowly and reached out to pluck the cigarette from Mike’s fingers. “No, it won’t. But these things_ will _kill you.” He dropped it on the ground and stubbed it out under the toe of his shoe._

_“Buzz kill,” Mike muttered._

_John grinned. “Come on, Mike.” He threw an arm around the man’s shoulders. “I think it’s Davey’s round, and you know what that means.”_

_“Tequila!” Mike cried, punching the air with his fist._

_“Tequila,” John nodded in agreement._

_His hand was on the door handle. He was about to walk back inside when he heard the squeal of tires, the odd sound of rubber on gravel as the car swerved. John turned, his eyes widened in horror at the beaten up VW as it barreled out of control around the corner. He stepped forward, towards the edge of the sidewalk, when Mike’s hand clamped down on his shoulder._

John swallowed heavily as Gracie stood, approaching the podium. She was nominated by the class to speak on their behalf. They’d asked him, but he couldn’t. It felt wrong. Like a lie. Like an executioner espousing the admirable qualities of the doomed. He didn’t think he’d be able to form words, and evidently he was right. It already felt as though he was swallowing razorblades. Mea Culpa.

“For those of you whom I haven’t’d the pleasure of meeting, my name is Grace. Kelly was my roommate, my study partner, my best friend from the day we stepped into Bart’s. Kelly was the most beautiful, gracious, benevolent, giving person I have ever met, and that she considered me a friend is an honor that I strive to deserve everyday.”

Somewhere in the back of the church, someone shifted their chair; the sound of metal scraping across the marble floor sending a shiver down John’s spine.

“As a class, we have all entered into the medical profession as healers. Some of us come in as intellects, some as workers, but Kelly was following a vocation, a calling. She spent her time healing, caring, minding, giving. Becoming a doctor was never a job for her, it was simply who she was. I remember, maybe ten days after we’d settled in our first flat, I came home to find three kittens. Kelly had stumbled upon them on her way home, and she couldn’t bear to leave them in the box out in the cold. I didn’t know it then, but that was how Kelly was. She was constantly bringing home strays.”

John winced. Now he hated himself.

“She would give her sandwich to the man on the street, her gloves to another. She would share anything and everything she had with those in need. She was like a mum to most of us. And while we sometimes worried that the job ahead would steal that from her, she never became jaded. Never toughened up against the kind of merciful acts she could do. She gave so much of herself, that I was always surprised by how whole she remained.”

The chair moved again, metal on marble; funny how much it sounded like metal grinding against metal. He should have insisted.

“We are a privileged group. We are educated. We are capable. We are an authority. We are given a glimpse of people’s lives that few others will ever see. And with such insight, we must conduct ourselves with the utmost dignity and pride. We must live as example. We must celebrate in modesty. We must mourn as humans.”

The grinding sound of metal on metal grew louder in his head. How was he supposed to give the valedictorian address in a few days? He could barely hear what Gracie was saying. He couldn’t even see through the blur of tears. He could have taken her keys.

“Kelly was a beautiful, talented, intelligent, young woman. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend, a partner, a fiancé, a colleague, and a blessing for the brief time she spent on this planet. Kelly… May angels lead you in.”

John let his eyes flutter closed.

_The car nearly cleared the intersection when it was hit from the side. The cross traffic too rapid to stop as the VW spun violently into the next on-coming car. The sound of metal grinding against metal shrieked through the night, and the VW was hit for a third time, rocking dangerously onto two wheels before dropping to rest against a lamppost._

_“Kells,” John breathed. The slow tick of cooling engines, the stopped cars had doors opening, shouts, angry gestures. The VW didn’t change. “Kelly,” John shouted._

_“No, John,” Mike’s arm wrapped around his chest, trapping him where he was. “Call an ambulance,” Mike snapped at a gawker on the corner. “Now!”_

_John fought free of Mike’s arm and ran. He didn’t hesitate as he dodged through the stopped cars, over the broken glass. “Kelly!”_

_She wasn’t moving._

_“Man, she came out of nowhere.”_

_“Kelly, baby,” John struggled with the handle of the door. It wouldn’t open, the metal too twisted to function. He skidded around the hood to reach the passenger door. “Kelly?”_

_“She ran the red light. I swear.”_

_Sirens cut through the chatter._

_“Kelly, please. Say something!” John wrenched the passenger door open, nearly ripping it from it’s dented hinges. He crawled into the car, ignoring the sharp edges of damaged frame, the fragments of shattered glass. “Kells,” he reached over the gearstick._

_She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t breathing._

_John reached for her wrist, not sure what he intended. The warm, tacky blood coated his fingers as he felt for a pulse. There wouldn’t be one. Too much blood was on the outside instead of the inside. The sirens grew louder. Flashing lights decorating the pavement. Noise, chaos, shouts and swears. A pair of hands hauled John back out of the car, pulling him clear so the paramedics could get in. “Kells…”_

_“Come on, John,” Mike had both arms around him in a bear hug as he dragged him far enough away that the smell of burnt rubber and leaking petrol wasn’t overwhelming._

_“Oh God,” John breathed, his knees threatening to give out on him. “Oh… Oh God…” His breathing faltered as it took on a gasping quality, short, sharp, shallow. Mike kept him on his feet, pulling him further from the cars. With a patch of grass beneath his feet, John gave a violent heave and Mike let him go to vomit into the bushes._

John stumbled out the side door and took three deep, heaving breaths of fresh air. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t… He braced his palms against his thighs as he tried to breathe through the nausea, the suffocating smell, the tightness in his chest, and the pain thundering behind his eyes. After a moment, he felt the nausea pass, the urgent need to vomit stay itself and he lashed out, striking the side of the building with a closed fist. He dropped onto the step, loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and hung his head, letting the throb from his knuckles match the pounding in his head.

He was sweating, trembling slightly, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d think it was withdrawal. Mea Culpa. Maybe it was. Quit cold turkey and you get the shakes, the sweats, the nerves, the nausea; this was just quitting a person. Permanently. This would have been so much less painful if he didn’t feel so alone. The moment they’d graduated, he was gone. He wouldn’t miss a single living soul.

The sound of someone clearing their throat had his head snapping up, and he blinked up at the face of Mr. McFadden. John jumped to his feet and instantly regretted it, steadying himself with a hand on the wall of the church. “I’m sorry, sir. I just…”

The man shook his head slowly. “It’s alright, John. It’s a bit… Stuffy in there.”

John nodded and corrected his posture, swallowing heavily and pulling his shoulders back. “Yeah. Stuffy.”

“John,” he started hesitantly. “Are you? Are you here on your own?”

John’s brow flickered in surprise and he turned to squint toward the front of the church. “Yeah.” He frowned and struggled to correct his expression. “My sister was… She got… Held up. And mum… My mum is…”

Mr. McFadden’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I know.”

John bit down on his lower lip and nodded, studying his shoes. “Sir, I… I…”

“Stop,” the man’s voice broke ever so slightly. “I can’t… John, we…” He sighed and reached into his pocket, producing a small gold ring, the simple diamond set in center. “You should…” He held it out to John.

John put his hands up in horror. “I can’t… Please.” Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa.

“John,” he took John’s hand and placed the ring in his palm. “We don’t… There aren’t many things of hers that… You should have this… Have it back. Keep it…”

John took a shuddering breath and flattened his palm across his mouth, trying to stifle a sob. He bowed his head as he tried to reign in the emotion. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he gasped out.

The hand returned to his shoulder. “She loved you. And we… We… have always… Thought… You are like a son to us.”

John closed his fingers around the ring, feeling the edges of the stone cut into his palm.  Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. Maybe he could actually cut his hands open on it, bleed out slowly, let the poison out.

“No one blames you, John.”

“I do,” he whispered. My fault.


	5. Say When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 5 TW's  
> \- Graphic description of surgical intervention  
> \- Blood  
> \- Medical jargon (... I'm sorry... I just can't write around it)  
> \- Self-hate  
> \- Death  
> \- Shitty bosses  
> \- Um... may or may not shake your faith in the NHS? If you have any?  
> (If you feel I need to add any tws, please let me know)
> 
> Wednesdays are now, officially, ANGST WEDNESDAYS. As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Once we're through with this, I will put up a playlist for this fic. As you may have noticed, all the chapters are songs... Sad and angsty songs... I picked them carefully. This chapter, may in fact be the worst chapter for me. I wrote it... maybe... slightly intoxicated for courage and then reread it in the harsh light of day. It made me tear up. That might be why I couldn't change the med-speak. And before you ask, yes this stuff happens. Yes, this happened my intern year. No, it's not why I quit surgery for a non-cutting job. No, the names aren't the same... nor is the procedure. Yes, my reg told me... that. I know you may find the other chapters worse than this one (Chapter 4 is brutal tbh), but I just feel it's important to come clean on this: I may have put too much of myself in this one.
> 
> **"Come across you lost and broken. You’re coming to, but you’re slow in waking. You start to shake. You still haven’t spoken, what happened? They’re coming back and you just don’t know when. You want to cry, but there’s nothing coming. They’re gonna push until you give in…”**  
>  ~Say When, The Fray

“Watson, what the fuck is that in my field?”

John squinted. “Is that an aneurysm?”

“What the fuck is that doing there?” Phil demanded, reaching for a probe.

“Definitely wasn’t on the scan, Phil.” John tilted his head as he tried to get a better view without invading the field. It was definitely an out-pouching from the artery. Hell of a wide neck on it. His face twisted in concentration as he watched for the flow; it was one way. It wasn’t turbulent really, just one way. It went from the artery to… “No, wait!” John snapped.

Phil had already slid the probe beneath the aneurysmal sac and lifted. The tension only lasted for a moment and it tore free, a steady pulse of arterial blood shooting from the open end. “What the fuck!”

“AVM,” John dropped his retractor and reached in with both hands. “Give me a haemostat!” The field was already slick with blood as he tried to catch the end of the bleed and clamp it. Arterial and venous, both, pouring into the field.

“Shit!” Phil swore loudly. “We’re going to need blood. Now! Get my house officer on the phone!”

There was a pause from the theatre nurse as she waited for the return of page. Anaesthetics rambled off the vitals and worked on medically maintaining the blood pressure. John managed to get his fingers on the venous end and temporarily hold it with a haemostat. “Phil, I can’t get around the arterial one. There’s too much blood to be sure, but I think the neck is too wide.”

“Clamp the whole thing then.”

“The whole SMA?”

“You fucking heard me. Do it!”

John did, then started to suction the field clean.

“Where the fuck is the house officer?”

“They’re not responding to the page,” the nurse answered.

“Then get my intern! For fuck’s sake!”

“Next door,” John called. “She’s scrubbed with Tom on the lap-chole.”

“Then Tom will managed on his own. Go get her!”

She was at the door in less than 30 seconds. “What’s wrong?” She came as close to the table as she dared without risking the sterile field.

“Call the bank, tell them she’s on her way now.” Phil twisted to face her. “Listen to me carefully. I want you to run to the blood bank, get two of the emergency bags of Oh-neg, and run back here with them. Run. Do you understand?”

Murph nodded sharply. “Yes, sir.” And she ran.

John pulled his hands from the field. “It’s clamped, Phil. Can I get a timer?” He watched as someone started the wall timer. “Now what?”

“You take the venous one. I’ll take the arterial one. We’ll need yours done first. You’ve got smaller hands, so have at.”

John nodded and set to work. Both of them leaning over the table, shoulders and arms brushing constantly as the insistent beeps at the head of the table sounded in the theatre.

“Sir,” Murphy interrupted, handing the bags over to the anaesthetist. “What else do you need?”

Phil glanced up at the running tally of blood loss and the vitals on the monitors. “Do it again,” he hissed.

“Yes, sir.” And she was gone again, tearing out of the room at a sprint.

“We’re behind,” Phil grunted.

A loud alarm sounded from the monitors, and Phil swore.

“We’ve got a V-fib!”

“Fix it!” Phil snapped.

John shifted up the table and started compressions. “Don’t you dare,” John hissed at the drapes.

“Charging.”

“We’re too far behind,” Phil whispered.

“Everyone clear?”

John and Phil both stepped back with their hands up as the shock was delivered.

“We good?”

“No. Charging again.”

“Do you fucking hear me?” John resumed compressions. “Don’t you dare.”

“Everyone clear!”

The room seemed to freeze as the second shock was delivered.

“Sam?” Phil demanded.

“Sinus again.”

“Thank Christ.” Both sets of hands dove into the field. “How close are you, John?”

“I need,” he was biting his own tongue in concentration. No one would see it behind the mask. “Ten?” No… wait… There. He finished the tie and watched as he cautiously released his clamp. “Done. It’s holding.”

“Sir?” Murphy called, handing another pair of bags off to the anaesthetist.

“Again!” Phil snapped.

With a nod, she darted out the door.

_John threw back the dregs of what pretended to be coffee and tossed the empty cup into the rubbish. He shuffled the stack of papers as he looked for his notes in the not-yet-collated pseuo-chart. He yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes and pulled about five more forms from the cubbies. He set them into some sort of order and pushed himself to stand. Call had been horrendous. At least someone else was getting the incessant bleeps now. All he had left was the normal vascular list, the trauma list, and the emergency list, plus the twelve new admissions, the one in ICU, the one that plastics was trying to pawn off on them, the one that tried to die five times last night, the two house officers that couldn’t tell their arse from their elbow—which was exceptionally disconcerting as they wanted to be a proctologist and an orthopod respectively—and a boss that felt the good old days of multiple thirty-six hour shifts wasn’t something for nostalgia but something to be emulated again. Thankfully his intern seemed to have her shit together; if only he could find a way to get her properly trained in the theatres._

_Let’s go Watson; he pushed himself to stand and took a moment to steady himself as a wave of orthostatic hypotension nearly knocked him down. He groaned to himself, ran a hand through his hair. Consent. Then maybe some brekkie, then post-take round, then coffee, then the lists. It was nearly seven; he could probably free his intern to help with the workload. He cracked his neck from side to side, collected his papers, and set out in search of her; she wouldn’t be far from the A &E._

_It didn’t take long for him to find the dark ponytail against the green scrub top at the far counter. He made his way over and clapped a hand on her shoulder, propping himself against the wall. “Heya, shorty.”_

_She turned and gave him a wry smile. “You know, that’s a ridiculous nickname coming from you.”_

_He snorted. “You get any sleep?”_

_“Sleep is for the weak,” she muttered, scrawling rapidly in a chart._

_“Is that a no?”_

_“Did you sleep any?” She tilted her head when he didn’t answer. “Thought so. Scrubbed in theatre all night?”_

_He shook his head. “Come on, Murph. We’ve got work to do. I’m making the house officers take the ward work for today.”_

_A look of horror crossed over her face. “Please, no.”_

_“I want to get you in theatre. Post-call is the only option.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Besides, how much of a mess can they make in a day?”_

_She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you remember what happened that one time I was on leave?”_

_He pursed his lips. “I do, yeah.”_

_“One day,” she said flatly._

_John rolled his eyes. “Forget it. We have to take their training wheels off sometime.”_

_“So, the one day that neither of us has slept and there are three lists is the day for that?” She didn’t look convinced. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”_

_“It’ll be fine.”_

_“If this ends poorly, I’m calling you Hamish for a month.” She kept a straight face just long enough to seem convincing._

_“I will never escape you knowing my middle name, will I?” he sighed._

_“It only takes one small error in judgment,” she said wryly, gathering the papers and chart from the counter and turning towards the A &E._

_“Error in judgment?” he protested._

_She raised a single brow. “You sent your intern, the only other effective team member I might add, to collect your official diploma from the college. And if you think, for one second, that I’m sorry about looking at it, then you’re an idiot.”_

_He sighed heavily. “What did I do to deserve this abuse?”_

_She smirked._

_“No,” he said flatly. “Do not answer that.”_

_She chuckled._

_“Come on. If we get these consents done early enough, there’ll be time for breakfast before the boss shows up and I lose my appetite.”_

Murph stopped at the door, another bag of emergency blood in each hand. John actually flinched at the look on her face as she panted. She’d clearly sprinted again. “Sir?”

Phil shucked his gloves, “Don’t bother, Murph.”

She glanced at the fresh blood bags in her hands, the blood on the floor, the blood on Phil’s scrubs, on John’s. “But…”

Phil stripped his sterile gown and dumped it into the sluice bin. “Go put it back.”

“Back?”

Phil rounded on her. “We killed her, Murph. Alright?! She’s dead. We killed her. Just… Just fuck off for a few minutes, yeah?” He brushed past her and slammed into the scrub room then out into the corridor.

“What?” she breathed.

John shook his head slowly and dropped his head to stare at his hands where they braced against the theater table. “AVM,” he whispered. “We… Didn’t see it. It wasn’t on the scans. It was too…” He swallowed. Fuck he hated this. “We couldn’t catch up and the neck was too wide to clamp. There was…” He sighed and shook his head again. “Then with the V-fib, the art was clamped too long…”

“I told her…”

“I know, Murph. So did I.”

“I…” her voice cracked. “I promised that it would be ok.”

He winced. “We can’t…” No, John thought. He’d done it too. He’d told them it’d be fine. He promised they’d be ok. He’d promised them. And he’d let his intern make the same promise. How could he have let her do that? “Look, Murph,” he stripped out of his gloves and gown and crossed to the door. How could he have let this happen? “We need to get that blood back so it’ll be useable.”

She glanced past him at the table, then back to his face before nodding slowly. But she didn’t make a move to leave.

“Murph,” he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “This one isn’t on you.” It’s on me. It’s my fault. God, he wanted to punch something. He turned her toward the scrub room. He walked with her to the blood bank, signed the bags back in and they trudged into the theatre break room. “Tea?” John asked softly. She nodded mutely and John brought over two mugs.

“John,” she chewed on her lower lip. “I… I’ve never…”

He sighed. “That’s because you know better.”

“I said she would be fine. I actually said, ‘I promise you that everything will be alright.’” She pressed her eyes shut and hung her head. “Why did I do that?”

“Because I did it first.”

“Hey!” Phil snapped from the doorway. “Family, five minutes. You both are coming.”

John looked askance at him. “Phil, I’ll come with you. Murph should-”

“Her name is on the consent form, John. I need her there. Legally.” Phil looked slightly disgusted at the idea of an intern being in the room. “Both of you. Five.”

And seven minutes later, John was certain he was watching someone’s career end. Murph stood stoically at his side, offering her presence as support, but refusing to speak. As the meeting went on, he could see her façade cracking, the heat in her cheeks, the unresolved shimmer in her eyes, the clench of her hands behind her back, the way she bit the inside of her cheek. He hated himself.

“I just don’t understand,” the husband was crying. As was the son. And the sister. “You said it would be fine. You said she’d be fine!”

John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

Phil sighed. “Sir, every surgery we do carries risk. We, myself, Mr. Watson, your wife, your family; we all thought that the benefits of the procedure outweighed the risks. We wouldn’t have considered an operation without that. What happened is a tragedy.”

“But she said…” The husband pointed an accusatory finger at Murph and John half stepped in front of her as if to protect her from the blow.

“She and I told you the same thing,” he said softly. “Dr. Murphy, as part of the surgical team was responsible for caring for your wife prior to the operation. But she was not performing the surgery. That was me. That was Mr. Stone,” he nodded toward Phil. “In fact, I believe Dr. Murphy is delaying the emergency list to express her condolences. She admitted your wife, cared for her in the A&E, and overnight on the ward.”

He heard her sigh just behind his left shoulder, and he half turned. “Laney, Tom needs you to assist on that list. I’ll meet you in theatre fifteen when we’re done here.”

She gave a sharp nod. “Mr. Lynch,” she said, her voice sharply cracking. “I… I am sorry for your loss.” And she fled the room.

_John tucked into the massive breakfast. “Eat that before it gets cold,” he mumbled around a mouth full of egg._

_Murph stuck her tongue out. “Just because I wasn’t raised in a barn…”_

_“You’ll never grow if you don’t eat,” Phil nudged her with his elbow._

_“Seriously though, eat up. We’ve got like five minutes before we’ve got to start these lists.” John folded an entire piece of toast into his mouth._

_She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, just sitting with you two is enough to make me lose my appetite.” She had a few bites of the fry-up. “How do you eat so much when you’re post-call? The tired makes me… not hungry.”_

_Phil took a swig of his coffee. “You gotta eat when you can. You’ve no idea when you’ll next get a meal. And I swear to God, Murph, if you faint in theatre, I’ll disown you.”_

_“You think I’m a swooner?” She huffed. “You know what they call our team?” When neither of them answered, she chuckled. “Nap’s Jacks.”_

_Phil furrowed his brow. “What does that even mean?”_

_Her grin said how amusing she found it. “It’s a height joke. Nap for Napoleon. Jacks as in ‘The Ripper’ because we slice and dice and just never get caught.”_

_Phil flashed an amused half-smile. “I’ll take it.”_

_John shook his head. “That’s terrible, the both of you. As the tallest one on this team-”_

_Phil kicked him under the table. “Stuff it, Shrimpy.”_

_They laughed._

John sighed as he eased his way into the break room. He glanced around, finally finding her tucked into the corner of the window seat. He consciously unclenched his fists. “Hey, Murph,” he said gently.

She gave him a wry smile, “Theatre fifteen, John?” Her humor couldn’t hide the fact that she’d clearly been crying. Even her posture looked defeated.

There was no theatre fifteen; it was their slang for the break room, a way to talk about being in the break room and sounding busy to those not in the know. He dropped onto the bench seat next to her. “Alright?”

She swallowed and found something to stare at out the window. “Dandy. You?”

“I think it’s been a shit day,” he said frankly.

“Does the past thirty-four hours only count as one day?”

“Thirty-seven now, actually.”

She snorted. “I can’t do this, John.”

“You can,” he nudged her knee with his elbow. “Murph, seriously. Look at me.”

She finally met his gaze and tears welled in her eyes. “I told them she would be fine, and now she’s dead.”

John’s mouth drew into a grim line. “Murph, this one is not on you. Phil and I, we fucked up. That was our surgery and we fucked it. Mea Culpa. We made a poor decision, and there was no coming back from it. It happens.”

“And you’re ok with that?”

“No!” he snapped. “I’m not fucking ok with it. It was a piss poor showing of our skill. We are better than that. But if she hadn’t had surgery, she’d have died anyway. Dead if we didn’t do something. Dead because we did. And that fucking sucks, Murph. It’s not ok, but there are worse things.”

“Worse?”

“The number of people not dead, because Phil has fixed them, because I fixed them, what do they count for? One mistake, and you quit, and how many people will not be fixed, because you throw in the towel?” He stood and started pacing. “You’ve great hands. You’ll be a brilliant surgeon. But you’ve gotta let the bad ones go. Particularly this one.”

“I promised…” she hissed.

“And you’ll never do it again!” John ordered. She looked startled, stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. He wet his lips anxiously. “Because that’s the second time I’ve made the same promise and the second time I’ve been wrong. If you learn nothing else from today, learn this – know this: cutting is unpredictable. Things go wrong. You’re never one hundred percent sure. Don’t lie and say you are. That’s it. That’s all. Clearly I needed to learn that one again.” John balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes. That was it, the big and small of the thing. He hadn’t learned. He’d almost let his intern make a fatal career mistake. He’d lost a patient on the table. He’d let Phil make a manual mistake that was unforgivable. He’d let that patient die. He’d killed their patient. How many deaths could he count himself responsible for now? John took a deep breath and tried to will his shoulders to relax. “This one is on me, Murph. It’s on me.”


	6. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 6 TW's  
> \- Physical violence  
> \- Graphic descriptions of war  
> \- Graphic descriptions of injury  
> \- Graphic descriptions of death  
> \- Gun violence  
> \- Blood  
> \- Shitty leadership (look... a CO that's as rubbish as John's dad)  
> \- An appearance by Mum Watson... being less crap than usual... but still crap.  
> (If you feel I need to add any tws, please let me know)
> 
> Wednesdays are now, officially, ANGST WEDNESDAYS. [by popular demand, Christmas Eve is not pardoned!] As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Once we're through with this, I will put up a playlist for this fic. As you may have noticed, all the chapters are songs... Sad and angsty songs... I picked them carefully. This chapter... well... If you haven't watched ASiP recently, I recommend you pay close attention to the first 15 seconds (or the lovely gif sets that are floating about with them in it). I used them for inspiration. [edit: I finally had the gifs come up on my dash again. Anyone looking for them; here! http://queerdraco.tumblr.com/post/103479377010/sherlock-rewatch-1 ]
> 
>  **"I’m bleeding out, so if the last thing that I do is bring you down, I’ll bleed out for you. So I bare my skin and I count my sins and I close my eyes and I take it in. I’m bleeding out. I’m bleeding out for you…”**  
>  ~ Bleeding Out, Imagine Dragons

“Contact left!” The shout came from somewhere ahead, but John responded instantly. He dove forward on his belly and executed an army crawl until he reached the stone and mud wall. The sharp staccato of semi-automatic fire was drown out by more shouts from his CO. “HOLD THE LINE!”

John winced as a few rounds lodged in the rudimentary wall and reverberated through his shoulder and into his chest. Why? Why was the 5th always thrown out to the front? And where the fuck were they? In a furrow next to an opium field? Fuck. He slipped the strap of his med bag over his shoulder and pressed his back against the wall.

“Captain!”

He twisted to his right, “Sir!”

“Get your men across that field!”

John eyed the plot of land. The green stalks were maybe waist height at best, flat land, no cover. No way in hell they got across that unscathed. Not with the shots coming from the trees. “That’d be suicide!” he shouted back.

“That would be an order!”

Mother-fucking-cunting-sodding… John grimaced and twisted to his left. Two men were up on one knee, providing suppressing fire for the rest of his squad as they reached the wall. The one closest to him; what was his name? Darren? Daryls? Gave him a cheeky snicker. “Welcome to the suck, Sir.”

John rolled his eyes. “Eyes forward, Soldier!” he ordered. What good was cover fire if they weren’t even looking where they were shooting? How old was that kid anyway? Eighteen? Twenty?

There was an aborted scream off to his right and John swung around to see one of the lieutenants with both hands firmly gripping his own thigh, blood pouring out around his clenched fingers. “Fuck!”

“Medic!”

John shifted the butt of his rifle around his side and made eye contact with the CO. “Get on it, Captain!”

Being medically occupied might just keep his own squad from being cut down in the poppies. Wasn’t Flanders supposed to be done and gone a century ago? He grabbed the handle of his med kit and glanced back toward the field at his left. “Mind the flank,” he called to the two men there.

Darren? Daryls? Darwin? Was reloading his rifle and glanced at John, gave a smile and a chuckle and in the time it took John to blink, the boy tumbled down towards him with a hand at his neck.

“Mother-fucker!” John snarled, lunging on top of the kid and clamping a hand over his neck. Strong spurts of blood welled between his fingers. Carotid. Sonuvabitch, it had to be a carotid. “Dawson!” he barked. That was his name—Dawson. “Look at me!” The kid’s eyes rolled in his head as he groaned. He was going pale. “You stay with me, Son!”

“Watson!” the CO bellowed from somewhere at his back.

“Murray! Get to that leg! Tourniquet!” John shouted without looking up from Dawson’s face. The poor boy looked terrified. Murray had been right behind him; he’d know what to do with the leg. “Look at me,” John repeated. “You’re going to be alright.” The volume of blood was decreasing. There really was nothing for it when the carotid was shot open, not out here, not in a field in the middle of a war zone. Maybe in a fully kitted OT, pre-prepped, back in London… Maybe… “Dawson,” John ducked his head so he’d be heard over the incessant gunfire. “You’re going to be alright. You’re going home, kid. Just breathe.”

“Watson! Now!”

“Listen to me,” John murmured. “You’re fine. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“He’s fucking dead! Mind the living, Captain!”

“Mea Culpa. You’re alright,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. I’ve got you. I’m so sorry…” John could identify the moment, down to the exact millisecond that the kid died. The blood flow stopped. The last pinch of air relaxed out of the body. The eyes didn’t roll, but the pupils dilated unnaturally in the glaring sun. John closed his eyes, his face pinching and he took a long slow breath in through his nose. He set his jaw, opened his eyes, and gingerly replaced the kid’s head against the packed earth. Out of habit, he gently shut eyelids, his bloodied fingers leaving grotesque smears across the young face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“This is insubordination!” the CO shouted.

John spun on his knees as the CO pushed to stand and stalked toward him. With a sharp movement, John lashed out with a firm kick that made contact with the back of the CO’s knees and knocked him off his feet. The Major made a series of violent and loud noises as John lunged forward and planted his palm at the top of the man’s sternum, pinning him to the ground with a firm hand next to the windpipe. The rapid staccato of snaps that whipped overhead sliced into the leaves of the tree and pierced the sandbags marking the top of the rough wall, showering the pair of them with grit and hot metal. “Keep your fucking head down!” John barked angrily and pushed off of him to reach in injured lieutenant. “Sir!” he added with venom.

_“Mum, you’re being a bit melodramatic about this,” John said patiently._

_“But my baby,” she whined._

_“Mum…”_

_“You’ll call?”_

_“Yes, mum. I’ll call.”_

_“And you’ll write to me?”_

_John sighed heavily. “Yes, mum.” He stood and reached for his duffle. He needed to leave before his composure cracked. Before she really knew why he had to go._

_She stood and brushed her hands nervously on her cardigan before taking John’s face between her palms. “Your dad would be so proud.”_

_John bit back nasty comment, but his face twitched at the venomous thought. He shifted the bag and gave a quick nod. “I’ve to go, mum. I’ll be late.”_

_Her eyes filled again. “But, why? John, you’re a doctor. You don’t need to do this.”_

_“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I do.”_

John winced as an RPG landed dangerously close to the OT’s temporary walls. The building seemed to shudder and the lights flickered as the staff held their collective breaths. Nothing fell from the ceiling this time, and John clenched his jaw, focusing back on the task at hand. A second team was operating a few feet away, and the next case was just off in his peripheral vision. That’s how it worked here: nonstop, relentless, incessant, conveyer belt of cases.

“Alright, Captain?”

John raised his brows before glancing up momentarily. “Murray?”

“You just…” he paused, adjusting the suction for a moment. “Look a bit wrung out.”

John dropped another shard of shrapnel into the kidney dish. “As long as I look better than…” his head dipped minutely towards the table. He tied off another vessel; the leg was running out of arterial supply. At this rate… Hell, why bother putting it off. “Fucking claymores.”

“Captain?”

John sighed heavily. “We’re not going to save the leg, Bill.”

Murray gave a careful nod. “Life or limb, Captain. You know they all pick life.”

John pressed his eyes shut, the darkness reversing the blood and drape color contrast behind his lids. “Do they?”

“John.”

He sucked his cheeks in behind the surgical mask and gave Murray a long look. Finally he gave a quick nod. “The leg goes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It took three more hours. By the time they were done, the fighting outside had settled and the constant din of noise was only from within the room. John stripped his gloves and gown and glanced around the room. He cleared his throat, “Next one?”

“That’s it,” Murray cleared some of the bloody dressings from the table.

“It?” John furrowed his brow. “I thought there were seven.”

Murray tilted his head slightly. “And we’ve done three.”

“And Gavin’s team did three. Where’s the last one?”

Bill glanced sadly toward the door.

“Oh,” John said simply.

“If you include the patrol we were on, you’ve been going for nearly forty hours straight, Captain. Go kip in the back. I’ll find us some food.”

John cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “Is it really nine already?”

“Past,” Murray knocked his shoulder off John’s as he slid by him. “Seriously, Captain.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John gave him a wave and started off to the break area, tucked behind a moveable wall. He grabbed a bottle of water and dropped down onto one of the benches, managing to drink nearly half a litre without a second thought. He was actually parched. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to eat or drink. No wonder he felt like he’d been hit with a truck.

“Food,” Murray said firmly as he flopped into one of the chairs nearby. He handed John a Snickers bar and can of coke.

“Food?” John raised a brow. “You and I have very different definitions, Bill.”

Murray snorted, “Don’t you play that London-highbrow card with me, Captain. I know you better than that.”

John chuckled. “I suppose this covers… some of the food groups?”

“Mmn,” Murray took too large a bite out of his Snickers bar and cracked his soda. “Tastes good enough.”

John’s mouth twitched, and when he gave it any amount of thought, it wasn’t worth the words. He ate the candy bar and started to wash it down with the soda, deciding to finish the water as well when he was done.

“You can’t keep doing this, Captain,” Murray said softly.

John half-smiled. “No. You’re right. A diet like this will have me dropping of an MI at forty.”

“Not what I mean.”

“I know. But needs must.” He pushed up to stand and blinked away the grayness that washed across his visual fields.

“Where are you going?”

“The head.” John half-frowned at Murray. “That ok, mother?”

Murray gave a nod. “Whatever. Just come back here and sleep after.”

“Yes, mum.”

John actually appreciated the attention from his ODP. It was just enough to keep him on his feet, functioning at his best, given the circumstances, without being nagging. Plus, Bill had a great sense of humor. Something wry and irreverent enough to keep John laughing even in the grim surroundings. He’d always known that doctors, surgeons in particular, developed a rather dark sense of humor to manage the burdens they shared, but the RAMC took it to an entirely different, twisted place. And Bill was sharp enough to understand it.

By the time he returned from relieving himself, Murray had stretched himself across one of the benches and was snoring softly, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the already bright sun that streamed through the windows. Jesus, that man could sleep anywhere. John sighed, wadded up a blanket for a pillow, and curled up on his side. Generally, he preferred to sleep on his left, but the idea of his back being exposed to the room as he slept made him feel too vulnerable. He flipped the edge of the blanket over his eyes and dropped off into a light, uneasy sleep.

John sat bolt upright at the sound of the door banging open, “Watson!”

“Yeah,” he swung his feet to the floor. “Here. What?”

“We need you. Now.”

John rubbed his eyes and blinked at Murray, who looked equally disoriented. “Yeah, coming. Bill?”

“Yes, Sir.”

John shook the remainder of sleep from his head as he strode back into the OT. “What have we got?”

“John, you do know we’ve only been sleeping for about thirty minutes,” Murray mumbled.

“Sir, it’s just… They were out on a patrol. They were ambushed. We’ve the first one in, the rest are about ten minutes out. It’s bad.”

John nodded to the nurse. She was, without fail, the most organized and pragmatic in the base. “Is Art around somewhere, I thought it was his shift now.” It was the look on her face that told him. “Jesus…”

“What?” Murray demanded, prepping the space in record time. “Art’s missing?”

John pulled on some gloves and started towards the gurney. “How bad?”

“Bad,” she answered. “Didn’t look too hard, but there’s bowel on the outside.”

“Can you get me the films up on the box?” John flipped back the bandages and started a rapid assessment, groaning as he found the evisceration. “Who was he out with? There’s no reason to keep the surgeons on the line right before they’re due here.”

The commotion of an arriving medevac rumbled through the thin walls and John headed to scrub up. “5th,” the nurse whispered.

“The 5th?!” John exclaimed, pausing halfway through laying out his sterile equipment.

She pressed her lips together. “Your squad, Sir.”

John felt his eyes go wide momentarily, then his brows drew together in an angry, tense expression. “My squad.”

“How many injured?” Murray called, moving their first patient onto the table with the porters. “Son of a bitch! John, this is Art!”

The nurse gave John a grim look. “Three injured, plus Art. Two dead.”

John clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze at an indiscriminant point on the wall. “Who?”

She consulted her clipboard. “Morgan and Landers.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and he quickly hid it behind his mask and set about scrubbing up. “Get Parish’s team in here. I can’t do all four myself. And fucking find Peters, he’s supposed to be a doctor. Maybe he can do the minors for a bit.”

She nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Wait,” John snapped as he pulled on his gown and gloves. “Who was in command if I was here?”

She watched him carefully, debating, weighing the risks of telling him. “The Major was in charge,” she said finally.

John felt his entire body tense, “Was he now?” The nurse nodded. John interlaced his fingers and drew them up against his sternum as Murray tied his gown in the back. Even with his short stature, even with his face hidden behind a surgical cap and mask, even with the easy smile and the healthy tan and boyish sense of humor, an angry John Watson was like a Tasmanian devil: small, quick, and vicious. The look in his eyes was alarming enough for the nurse to take a step back. “Tell me the Major is one of the injured about to be on my table.”

“No, Sir,” she whispered. “Unfortunately not. He never left base.”

“He…” John’s eyes flashed dangerously. “How?”

“Radio,” she said with a frown. “Had Roach run the squad with his input from base.”

John clenched his fists hard enough to make his knuckles crack.

_“Harry,” he called, pushing the door in. “Harry, I can’t stay long! Mum was a disast…” He pulled up short when he noticed a woman, wrapped in a towel, scrambling to reach the front door. “Uh,” he blinked, closed the door and cleared his throat. “Sorry? I’m John?”_

_The woman ran a hand nervously through wet brown hair. “Clara, John, sorry. I thought Harry would be back by now.” She stuck out her hand._

_John caught his lower lip between his teeth and blinked again. After a beat, he shook her hand. “I…” he felt the blush start in his cheeks and stared down at his boots. “I interrupted something, didn’t I?”_

_Clara tilted her head and her smile grew slowly. Then she exploded into a laugh. “You did,” she gasped as she giggled. “Oh my God, John…”_

_He chuckled, “Helluva way to meet my sister’s girlfriend.”_

_“Harry!” Clara called up the stairs. “Harry, you’re busted. Now come down here and introduce me to your brother properly before he disappears for a few months.” She turned back to John and gave him a bold smile. He liked her already._

_Harry came grudgingly down the stairs, her terrycloth robe wrapped snugly around her petite form. She looked properly ashamed to be in such a state, but John couldn’t hold it against her. He threw his arms around her in a firm hug. Aside from being freshly showered, she was clearly sober, well and fully sober, and she looked happy. “Oi!” Harry objected, giving him a shove. “You’re doing a tour of duty, not dying. I’m not cuddling you.”_

_John laughed and pulled back. “I like your girlfriend.”_

_Harry gave him a wry smile. “I don’t think she’d like you the same way.”_

_“Hey, she’s right here.” Clara nudged Harry in the ribs. “And you never told me how adorable he was.”_

_John actually blushed out to the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Yeah, I should go soon. I just wanted to see you before I left.”_

_Harry snatched the beret off his head to ruffle his hair. “I’m gonna miss you, Johnny.”_

_“Come on, Harry. That’s not dignified.” He snagged the hat from her hands and set it right._

_Harry’s smile dimmed. “How was mum?”_

_John gave an uncomfortable gesture with his head and shoulders. “You know how she is.”_

_Harry nodded. “You’ll call me, yeah?”_

_John snorted. “Between calling and writing to mum, if I get the chance, yeah.” When Harry didn’t laugh, John wet his lips and gave a small nod. “I’ll let you know what I can when I can, Harry. I’m not disappearing, I’m just…”_

_“Yeah,” she agreed._

_Clara patted Harry’s shoulder, “I’m going to… pop upstairs… put some pants on…” John pursed his lips at the flush that crept over his sister’s face. “John,” she stuck out her hand again. “I’ll hear from you soon?”_

_“I hope so,” John agreed. Clara dashed up the stairs and out of sight, leaving the siblings in the front hall together. “You…” John gave Harry a small smile. “You seem happy.”_

_“I am. Not that you’re going, but…” Harry gestured at the stairs. “This is good.”_

_“I’m glad,” he said simply. “Sorry it took me so long to meet her. Basic was busy.”_

_Harry swallowed. “Do you need a lift or anything?”_

_“Ah, no.” He shifted from one foot to another. “Dec is driving me to the train station.”_

_“Right.” Harry twisted her fingers together and gave him a weak smile. “So… You’re really going to…”_

_John’s mouth drew into a tight line. “I really am.”_

_“And you…”_

_“I have to.”_

_She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a tight hug._

_“Hey now,” he returned the embrace._

_“Promise me you’ll be safe, Johnny.”_

_“I’ll be fine,” he said softly. “I promise.”_

_“I’m not kidding.”_

_“Neither am I. You be safe too.”_

“GRENADE!”

John threw his hands over the back of his head as his entire squad hit the deck. It was a human instinct, protecting the vulnerable parts of the body in moments of stress and crisis. Yet all the armor in the world couldn’t keep him from covering the back of his neck when there was an explosion. Apparently, it was his Achilles heel. Murray had damn near boxed his ears the last time a few bits of shrapnel had skimmed his knuckles; a surgeon should know enough to protect his hands. Yeah, well, John Watson knew to protect his brainstem.

The explosion must have been at least half a click off to their left. The ground barely shook, and the shockwave was weak at best. John pushed up into a low crouch and eyed the horizon. No idea where that’d come from. No idea if there was another one about to follow, maybe with better aim. “Keep your heads down!” he shouted. “Roach!”

One of the lieutenants crept up to his side. “Sir?”

“What the bloody hell are they doing?”

Roach squinted out at the rocks and hill, the field looked endless, peppered with the odd trees and walls. “I… I’m not sure, Captain.”

John pursed his lips. He trusted Roach’s judgment. He’d lasted this long and was good with the men. And no amount of reassurance had appeased the man’s guilt over the loss of Morgan and Landers under his watch. It wasn’t his fault, but he was extra vigilant in the wake of the debacle. “Tell me I’m not the only one that doesn’t like it,” John grumbled.

“You’re not, Sir.” Roach furrowed his brow. “It doesn’t feel right.”

John grit his teeth. “They’re normally better with their grenades. What are they throwing them at?”

Roach shook his head slowly. “Can’t be us. It’s too far.”

“Right.” John sniffed angrily. “Low and slow. Very, very slow. And I want to hear a pin drop out here.”

Roach gave a nod and with a hand signal, the squad recommenced their delicate advancement, creeping through the field. The stalks were just at John’s eyeline when kneeling, so at a crawl, they covered even his bigger grunts. Not if line of sight was high up, but the hills were too far for snipers. He suspected there were a few huts, out buildings just past the walls. They could hide a few hazards, but none would have a shot unless his men stood; and they all knew better than to stick their heads up, even the new guys.

Counting losses and injuries, nearly half the squad was green and John couldn’t understand the Major’s need to throw them out on the front line from day one. Between his time in theatre and the odd skirmishes, training together had been non-existent. It had to change. Too many of them were being sent home in pieces. Scotty, Hughes, and Malcolm couldn’t be old enough to vote, and yet here they were, ready to die for Queen and Country without so much as a single PT day with the squad.

“HUP!” John barked as another grenade arced over the far wall. The squad ducked where they were, understanding the command and the need for quiet. It landed another four hundred meters off target. It wasn’t even close enough to shower them with dirt. Why were they wasting grenades? It wasn’t even near them. Hell it was damn near the same place as last time. John eyed the explosive cloud warily. It was hovering over the far west of the field. Recently ploughed patch of land. Mostly sand. No proper vegetation. No cover. No one there. Why there?

Murray sidled up next to him. “Captain?”

“Why there, Bill?” John murmured.

“Dunno. Looks… empty.”

“So why keep shelling it when we’re over here. A grenade in the sand isn’t going to touch us.”

Murray snorted. “At least they aren’t throwing mines.”

John twisted to stare at him. “What?”

Murray blinked. “Mines?”

“HOLD!” John shouted.

“Sir?” Roach called.

“Fall back.”

“Sir?”

“Captain?” Murray furrowed his brow.

“Mines,” John ground out. “They’re aiming for the mines.”

“HUP!”

The grenade made a lazy arc to land in the barren patch of land and exploded with similar effect. Then another, louder, brighter blast erupted from the ground; if anyone had been standing, the blast would have knocked them to their knees. John winced and sucked in a breath to fill the space emptied by the force of the shockwave. Fuck. They were trying to trigger the landmines.

“They must be daisy-chained!” John shouted over the ringing in his ears.

Roach nodded his understanding and signaled the squad’s withdrawal. And together, they started to fall back. John waved Murray to his back, taking up a defensive position to guard their retreat. Roach reached him quickly. “Sir?”

He gestured with a quick bob of his head. “They’re aiming for the landmines. They’ve got to have a good number buried in that field. If they set off the right one, I’m guessing the whole thing goes up.”

“Jesus.” Roach turned to keep the guard as the last few men made it past them. “Ya think?”

“They found one on the last toss,” John muttered. The pair of them flinched at the high-pitched whistle, the loud snap only reaching them as they ducked and turned. “Contact Right!” The flash of a muzzle from the distant trees and both of them opened fire into the distance. “Murray, get them back over that wall!” John barked. “Roach, with me!”

They split up, moving slightly apart to face the now quiet tree line. “Too quiet, Sir,” Roach murmured.

A volley of grenades landed in from the trees and automatic fire split through the dust clouds that rose from the impacts. They shielded their eyes from the flash and resumed picking out their targets, trying to sight the shooters through the smoke and soot.

John heard the scream come from somewhere over his right shoulder, but he didn’t dare break his line of sight on the contact.

“Hughes, Hughes! Get down!” Murray was yelling over the screaming, but it didn’t seem to calm.

“Bill, get them the fuck out of the line of fire!” John hollered.

“HUGHES!”

“Roach, you got this?” John demanded. Roach gave a nod, and John turned to see one of the newbies holding a bloody hand to his side and running away from the contact. “Hughes! Get down!” John bellowed.

The kid was running, pure panic in his movements.

“Stop!” John yelled. “That’s the…” Oh God no. John pulled himself up high on his knees. He could tell the moment the kid’s boots left the green stalks and hit the barren sand, sliding in the soft ground. “GET DOWN!” John screamed.

Most of his squad was over the wall and the sandbags would protect them. For the rest of them in the field, it was up to God’s mercy now. There was no way he could have heard the click and pop from this distance. No feasible way. But John heard it nonetheless as Hughes’ foot landed on one of the mines and the kid’s silhouette was seared onto John’s retina in a halo of flame.

Roach smothered John down into the dirt, flattening them both as the world exploded. John clamped his hands over his ears as one detonation burst into five, then fifteen. The ground vibrated beneath him as if it were trying to buck him loose. The heat followed in a gust of scorching air that sucked the breath from his lungs and singed along the back of his neck. For a moment, he was grateful his fingers were beneath his helmet for once.

Hands or not, John’s ears were ringing as the sand and soil began raining down around them. With a grunt, he rolled out from beneath Roach and surveyed the damage. The burning the crops. The crater in the earth. The smoke, the soot, the dirt still showering the field. Jesus, how was he alive? He patted himself down quickly, checking for wounds, and finding none, he twisted to find his men. When he made it back around to Roach, he was met with a dazed stare. A dazed stare, but an alive one. John wrapped a hand around the back of the man’s neck, pulling him in close enough to knock their helmets together. Roach gave a tentative smile. “Alright?” John mouthed. Roach nodded, and a broad smile spread across John’s face. Roach’s smile grew and he snorted. John giggled. And in a moment, they were both smothering full-body laughs in the middle of the scorched field.

_John stared miserably at the entrance to the station. “Dec,” he said quietly. “I’ll miss my train if I don’t go.”_

_“So?” Dec clenched and relaxed his hands against the steering wheel._

_“Dec.” John cleared his throat around the tightness._

_“John, I just don’t…”_

_“I’ve explained it, Dec. It’s something I have to do.”_

_“Then why does it feel like you’re running away from me?”_

_John dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been through this. Declan, really. This isn’t about you.”_

_“No, this is about you,” Declan hissed._

_“Yes. It is.”_

_Declan frowned. “You couldn’t throw your bleeding heart into something that I could do with you? There are charities, and mission trips, and MSF. Like, did you have to pick the one place that we couldn’t be a ‘we’?”_

_John tilted his head back against the seat and took a long breath through his nose. “Fine, Declan. Fine,” he muttered. “One more time. You tell me where I can go, as a surgeon, and save lives and be useful, and feel like I’m making a difference, and feel good about my skills, and vent all of this fucking rage I have before I explode! One minute! Because right now, I am this close. I’m on an absolute hair-trigger and I’m going to go off like a powder keg. And you’re sitting pretty fucking close to the blast zone.”_

_“Jesus, don’t you have a way with words.”_

_The twist of pain on Declan’s face had John clenching his jaw. He let out an angry shout and pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck.” John’s lips twisted to hold back another onslaught of words and he sniffed roughly. “I’m sorry. Dec, I’m not… I’m not good right now.”_

_“I’m going to worry.”_

_“Please don’t.”_

_“What if you change?”_

_John lowered his hands and blinked at the strangely innocent expression that met him. “I will.”_

_Declan sighed and stared at the station through the windscreen. “Should I… Do you want me to… I dunno… Wait?”_

_John closed his eyes, his face pinching tightly. “No,” he said finally._

_“Then this… I guess…” Declan handed him a folded sheet of paper._

_“Is this a Dear John letter?” John clenched the paper in a closed fist. Declan swallowed and turned back to face the station. John sniffed and a tight half-smile quirked his mouth. “It is.” He sighed, nodded, and opened the car door. “Good for you, Dec. Good for you.”_

John propped his back up against the wall as Malcolm kicked in the large, wooden gate-door. A dozen with him, a dozen with Roach and they would work their way through the abandoned village. But if his gut was anything to go by, the village wasn’t abandoned. And he’d long since stopped trusting the word of his CO. “Malcolm, you and Scotty stay on the gate. You’re watching out, we’ll cover in.” The two young soldiers nodded their understanding. “Alright, Lads,” he gave Roach a nod. “Quiet, steady, vigilant.”

Roach smiled darkly from the opposite side of the door. “See you in number thirteen, Sir.”

John took a deep breath and spun into the open space of the gate. He moved carefully, scanning his surroundings as Murray took up a space at his left, the other men falling in behind him. His half-squad headed west as Roach headed east with the other half, sweeping the buildings along the way. It was quiet. Still. Eerie. People had left in a hurry, and not long ago. But there were no people. Not yet anyway. John slowed as they reached the final building. Thirteen on the map. It was larger than the others, and yet darker. No real windows, two doors. They weren’t inside yet, but the sinister feeling that had been nagging at the back of his mind was back at full force now.

The air was hot and unmoving at mid-morning, and waiting was tense and uncomfortable. Thankfully, Roach was only a few minutes behind, and quickly made it to John’s side. “Anything?”

“Nothing, Sir,” Roach shook his head. “It’s dead here.”

“Mmn,” John grunted. “This... Feels like there’s just something amiss, yeah?”

“Is that the weird sense of foreboding I have, Captain?” Roach glanced at the last building.

“Yeah,” John wrinkled his nose. “Ok. Let’s send six back out front to help Malcolm and Scotty. Four off on our west flank, four on our right. Two stay up front. Last four round back. You and me will clear the building.”

Roach gave a very tight nod. “You sure you want to go in, Sir?”

John raised a brow. “I’m not sending anyone in to do my dirty work, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir. Lucky number thirteen, eh?”

“Mmn. Right,” John narrowed his gaze at the building. “Let’s get this over with.”

John was careful with the door, mindful of the chance of an explosive; Roach gave a quick sweep of the entryway. No one. Just hot, still air, darkness, and a smell. A bloody awful smell. John clicked on his torch and attached it to the top of his rifle. He knew that smell. Roach turned on his torch as well, and they both moved through the entryway up to the next door. John gave a nod and Roach carefully eased the door open.

The smell. Dear God. John brought the back of his hand up against his mouth as Roach gagged. “Fuck,” John hissed, squinting into the room, dragging his light around the space.

Roach dropped to one knee and vomited. Catching his breath as quick as he could. “Sorry. John, sorry.”

John waved him off, trying to breathe through his mouth as he counted the bodies. At least a dozen. Maybe more. Dead a few days, the heat and dark leading them to bloat and putrefy. Jesus, the smell was horrendous. “Looks…” John coughed once and swallowed back the bile that threatened the back of his throat. “I don’t see uniforms.”

Roach winced. “Small blessings.”

He blinked away the tears wrought by the noxious odor. “You take the right, I’ll take the left? Get this done?” Roach nodded, seeming to have his feet again. “Quick like. We’ll have to phone this in. And don’t touch the bodies. I don’t want to find out they’re booby-trapped.”

They skirted the piles of rotting flesh as they headed for the opposite doors. John carefully opened his door: cupboard or larder or something. Shallow room. No hiding places. It was empty. Thank Christ. He turned to follow Roach, toeing around the obstacles as he crossed the room again. God, the air was so thick with rot he could taste it.

There was a thud and shout and John dropped reflexively to one knee in the second doorway, a shot snapping over his head. Roach’s light swung wildly around the small room and John flinched from the beam as it shone in his face, momentarily blinding him. He didn’t have time to get his rifle back up as someone thudded into him, tackling him down to the ground. John yelped as the body of his gun dug into his back and shoulder and something cracked across his cheek. A heavy and sure forearm pressed down across his neck and John gasped in a short breath before he lost the space to breathe.

The scuffle from the other side of the room faded out of his consciousness as John gritted his teeth and tried to throw the man off of him. Unlucky it didn’t work and with his airway under pressure, John dug the fingers of his left hand into the end of the forearm and his right pressed up into the eyes hovering over him. It was a tenuous grip, but he managed to catch a thumb and snap it back with all his might. He felt the bone break in his hold.

This time when he bucked, he managed to wriggle free enough to come up on one knee. His sidearm slid into his right hand and at the sound of movement, John pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. “Roach!” he snapped hoarsely, the blast of the gun deafening in the close quarters. Oh Christ, the deep breaths were horrid in this air.

“Captain!”

In a blink, Roach’s torch picked out the silhouette of his attacker, now facing John, now lunging at John, the glint of a blade flashing in the torchlight. John shot again and the man dropped, a bullet lodged in his brain. It was auto-pilot. It was instinct. If he’d given it any real thought, he’d have been horrified by his actions. But then and there, it was his life or the other man’s. And John cared enough to live through the day; or, at least, some part of him did. He was going to hate himself later. He dropped the gun, letting it fall onto the packed dirt floor with a wince. His face hurt. He pressed his palm against his cheek and was rewarded with the sharp sting of contact with an open wound. He hissed and pulled his hand back. “Roach?”

He heard a grunt in reply and twisted to control his torch. Roach sat against the wall, his hand clenched over his bicep. “Sorry, Captain. They surprised me.”

John collected his pistol and tucked it back in the holster, pushing wearily to his feet. Normally he’d be angry. Now he was just tired. What a fucking mess. He shouldn’t have split with Roach. Terrible idea, terrible judgment. My fault. “Can you walk?”

Roach nodded and John hoisted him up, wrapping an arm around his waist. The first two steps were shaky as the adrenaline waned in their systems. Roach made a loud sniffing noise, “Jesus, Captain. Didn’t you shower today?”

John huffed out a single laugh. “You idiot.”

Roach cracked a weak chuckle. “Seriously, Sir. This place smells awful.”

“Yeah, we’re going.” John took more of the man’s weight on his short frame. His hand was tacky with cooling blood, a sensation that had become horribly familiar. Roach was bleeding from somewhere other than his arm. Shit. My fault. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	7. Things We Lost in the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 7 TW's  
> \- Mentions of death
> 
> Wednesdays are now, officially, ANGST WEDNESDAYS. [by popular demand, New Year's Eve is not pardoned!] As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Once we're through with this, I will put up a playlist for this fic. As you may have noticed, all the chapters are songs... Sad and angsty songs... I picked them carefully. This chapter... I know it's short. I know it's just rude. Sorry, not sorry. I do apologize for not being proficient at photoshop though. Don't judge the graphic.
> 
>  **"I was the match and you were the rock. Maybe we started this fire. We sat apart and watched all we had burned on the pyre. You said we were born with nothing. And we sure as hell have nothing now…”**  
>  ~ Things We Lost in the Fire, Bastille

It was the first proper letter he’d received from Harry, rather unexpected and ominous considering the care packages had clearly been Clara’s doing, and Harry’d been happy enough with the odd phone call. John turned the envelope over in his hand a few times before opening it cautiously. A single A4 sheet of paper was folded into thirds around a newspaper clipping, two words on the paper in Harry’s messy script: _Sorry Johnny._

He stared at the clipping, reading the short missive three times before setting it carefully on the table and dropping his head into his hands.


	8. No Bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 8 TW's  
> \- Suicide  
> \- Graphic description of death  
> \- Gun violence  
> \- Blood  
> \- Guilt/self-blame  
> \- I swear to god I'm going to have John's CO murdered...
> 
> First Angst Wednesday of 2015!!! (wait... why am I so chipper about this?). As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Once we're through with this, I will put up a playlist for this fic. As you may have noticed, all the chapters are songs... Sad and angsty songs... I picked them carefully. We're building back up in length again, but I've caught up with myself. Writing the chapters in the weeks preceding. I think we're looking at 13 or 14 by the time we're really done. HELP! Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know.
> 
> **"There are children standing here, arms outstretched into the sky. Tears drying on their face. He has been here. Brothers lie in shallow graves. Fathers lost without a trace. A nation blind to their disgrace since he’s been here…”**  
>  ~ No Bravery, James Blunt

“John!”

John’s head shot up from the desk as one of his ODPs burst into the tent. “Bill, what?”

“Something’s wrong with Scotty. John, you gotta come.”

John’s brow furrowed as he dropped the papers and ran. Hell, his boots weren’t even tied and he ran. He chased after Murray along the back way towards the mess, weaving between the semi-permanent structures of the camp, shielding his eyes against the midday sun. He skidded around a corner and came to an abrupt stop, nearly knocking into Murray in the sudden halt, the dried desert clay giving way beneath his boots. “Scotty?” John exhaled.

A pair of dark brown eyes met his worried gaze. “Stay… Stay back.”

_Pre-mission physicals… They were the bane of everyone’s existence. No one took them seriously. John could hardly take them seriously; when you have thirty seconds to confirm that everyone is well, there’s nothing credible about it. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair; it was getting shaggy again, time for a cut or his arsehole CO would be on his case again. But physicals first. Sham physicals first. If one more jack ass told him about a non-existent rash to have an excuse to drop trow…_

_“Scotty!”_

_“Here, Sir.”_

_The kid’s file said he was twenty. If he was, John would eat his shoe. Maybe, at a stretch, he was seventeen. He’d yet to hit a proper growth spurt, puberty, or any sign of adulthood. How in the hell did the office let him through? “Hiya, Scotty. How’s things?”_

_“Things are.”_

_“Any physical complaints?”_

_“Uh… no. None, sir.”_

_“And you’re feeling?”_

_“Oh, you know…”_

_John gave him a half smile. “Not really. Everything ok with you?”_

_“Fine. I’m fine.”_

_John pursed his lips and studied the lad. “Fine?” he raised a brow. “Somehow, that doesn’t sound fine.”_

_Scotty scratched at his arm absently. “I mean… It’s fine. Like. I’m…”_

_“Fine?” John asked wryly._

_“Mmn hm,” Scotty started chewing on is thumb nail._

_He sighed and folded his hands together, resting them on the desk. “Duncan, it’s ok if everything isn’t fine.”_

_The kid looked up startled. “Why… Uh… Is something not… Not… um… fine?”_

_John rolled a pen absently between his fingers and the desk, watching the metal glint in the light for a moment before eyeing Duncan Scott. “You tell me.”_

_“I…”_

_John waited._

_“It’s…”_

_John stopped fidgeting with the pen._

_“So… I… I think… No. No, no, no. It’s fine, really.”_

_John sighed. “You’re fine?”_

_“Fine.”_

_“Alright,” John clicked the pen and jotted a small note in the kid’s chart. Scotty stood and headed for the door. “You know,” John started just before he’d turned the knob. “If there’s ever a point when you find that something is not fine, you can talk to me, yeah?”_

_“Yeah. I mean. Yes… Sir.”_

_John gave a sharp nod and Scotty ducked out the door._

“Scotty, just put the gun down,” John said softly. What the ever-loving-fuck was going on?

“Private!” the Major barked from the door to the mess.

No. John waved the man off. Not that way. “Scotty, please,” John held his hands out, palms open in full surrender. “Scotty, look at me.”

The kid lifted his head and stared at John, tears pouring freely down his face. “You don’t understand,” he whispered.

Oh… Shit no. There was a crack. A big, fat crack in the kid’s psyche. Big enough to let the crazy pour out in a mad rush of adolescent self-destruction. “Then explain it to me,” John said gently. “Help me understand.” How had he missed that? It was a huge fucking miss.

“You can’t!” he cried.

“Please, Scotty.” John took a tentative step forward. “Tell me what’s happened?” Was it him that’d been having those nightmares for the past week?

The kid sobbed, his shoulders shaking. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“Stop. Stop it, now.” John swallowed as the safety clicked off in Scotty’s hand. “Duncan, don’t do this.”

“Private!” The CO stepped aggressively into the disturbed man peripheral vision. “You holster that weapon!”

“Sir, no!” John held up a warning, but it was too late.

“Get back!” Scotty spat, swinging the pistol out to train on the CO. “Stay the fuck away from me!”

“Duncan,” John called.

“No! You too, Watson!”

The gun passed briefly over John and his breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t wearing his armor. He was in his cargo fatigues and a tee shirt and unlaced boots. “Scotty, please?”

The kid let out a frustrated, angry wail and pointed the muzzle at the CO again. “Just stay back!”

“This is a court marshal, Scott,” the CO hissed.

“McKenna, sir, you’re not helping,” John murmured; the Major was beyond useless.

Scotty was trembling violently, sobbing, shuddering. He looked up at John again, sniffling. “I like you…” he whispered.

“No,” John pled.

“You,” choking swallow. “Are a good man,” cough, sob. “Captain, I… I’m sorry.”

“Please, Duncan.” John reached a hand forward, palm up. “Don’t.”

The kid grimaced, baring his teeth and pressing his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

The motion was rapid. A tight flex of the elbow and flick of the wrist and the barrel pressed into the soft underside of his jaw. Miniscule tensing of the index finger. And Private Duncan Scott crumpled to the ground in a limp pile of lifeless flesh.

John couldn’t breathe. It was gone. All the air was gone. Shit. Even if he’d wanted to breathe, he couldn’t. He stared, open-mouthed at the bloody mess, bony fragments, bits of brain matter that had moments before been pleasantly contained in the living skull of his Private. Fuck. Half a breath punched out of him as his joints turned to sand. And John found himself on his knees, his fingertips skimming the dusty ground at his sides. Bile threatened the back of his throat and he dropped forward onto his hands, letting out a high whine as a cold sweat broke out along the back of his neck. Christ. He heaved once, just the once and let his head drop between his shoulders, breathing through the nausea.

Major McKenna made a tutting sound. “There’s always one in every tour.”

John swallowed a gulp of air and pushed back to sit on his heels, twisting to glare up at the man. What a fucking… Goddamn piece of work… Bloody… Sodding…

“Shame you didn’t notice he was so unstable last time you had him in.”

John’s mouth went dry. “Sorry?”

The CO clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “When was the last pre-assessment? A week ago? Shame you didn’t bench him then, Captain.”

John gaped. If he’d benched him? Benched? When the Major explicitly said they were short. Everyone was out on patrol. Everyone. Including himself. How many patrols had he been on during the forty-eight hours before ‘pre-assessing’ the entire squad? Five? Four? And he had sat at that table with Scotty and… And he knew he wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine. John had known. Fine… Fucking fine was dead here. Mea Culpa.

“Murray!” The CO barked. “Help Watson clean up his mess.”

John rested his hands on the tops of his thighs, his shoulders drooping as the muscles in his face pulled toward center in a slow, tight flinch. He missed it. A heavy fatigue settled in his bones, what was the point of him if he couldn’t keep these kids from killing themselves?

Murray dropped down next to him, settling cross-legged in the dirt and heaving a sigh. “What a bloody bastard.”

“He’s right,” John croaked.

“He’s wrong,” Murray retorted. “Shit rolls up hill, Captain.”

“Don’t believe in physics anymore, Bill?”

“When’s the last time you slept, John?”

“You’re still getting sleep?” John snorted.

“Trust me, John.” Murray rested his hand on John’s shoulder. “This one’s his. You weren’t on patrol with us two nights ago. This one is on him.”

John shook his head slowly. He’d known. Fine… Fine. He was fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine.

“Seriously, sir. Go sleep. I’ll take care of this.” Murray waved absently at the body still in a heap ten feet in front of them. “When someone lands a bullet in my arse, I want you rested.” Murray pushed up to his feet and offered a hand.

John allowed himself to be pulled up and huffed out a laugh. “You think I’d dig around in your arse?”

Murray grinned. “I think it’d take less than a bullet, Captain.”

“Right,” John sighed. “Right. Fine.” He glanced at the body and grimaced. “He was a good kid.”

“What a waste.” Murray gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You tried, John. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”


	9. Closer to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 9 TWs  
> \- Um... kinda fluffy?
> 
> This isn't terribly angsty... No serious violence... What is going on?! I felt that this was a necessary chapter, something of a last chance pit stop before all hell breaks loose. And my God is hell going to break loose. But you can't leave a man in the desert for a decade with _nothing_ but pain and torture... As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know. And brace yourselves... Everything unravels from here. 
> 
> **"You had me long before you could know. The back of my mind I couldn’t get you to go. And as our conversation came to an end, I found myself closer to you again. Several signs had led me to this place; don’t fancy my chances if it’s left to fate. Something told me to take that chance. The whiskey may have had something to do with that…”**  
>  ~ Closer to You, The Coronas

John gave a contented groan and rubbed his face against the pillow. He felt warm and lax, a firm body half draped over his back, and the morning sun on his face was pleasant instead of baking. All reminders that he hadn’t just overslept, he wasn’t about to get shot at, and he didn’t have a line of bloodied soldiers laying outside of the theatre for him. One more day of this. One more…

Shit! John practically threw himself out of the bed. “Shit. Shit, shit, bugger, fuck, shit,” he hissed, scrambling to collect his pants, his jeans, where the fuck was his wallet? Goddammit! He nearly fell over trying to tug his jeans up his thighs. Shirt. Where did his shirt go? And he definitely had two socks somewhere. He growled and scratched at his scalp.

“Good morning.”

John gave a gentle sigh as he turned and leaned forward, planting a knee on the bed. “Go back to sleep,” he kissed him lightly, then turned to sit, digging under the bed for his shoes and cramming his feet into them.

“You’re leaving, then?”

The half-smile was self-pitying. “I’m late. They’re going to murder me.” He stood to zip his fly and button his jeans.

“I see.”

John pulled his tee-shirt on and tried to finger comb his hair into place. God, he’d need to get it cut or the Major would tan his hide. Shit. And now he was being a complete arse, ducking out in the early morning. He’d have woken him. John bit his lip, his eyes lighting as he appreciated the man stretched out under the sheet, torn between desperately wanting to stay and knowing the consequences if he did. “If I absolutely knew I’d be able to, I’d take your number and promise to call…” He groaned as he gave up and knelt back on the bed. “Jesus, I would,” he murmured and kissed him again.

“But?” he raised a brow curiously.

John rested his forehead against the man’s. “But, cell service is dodgy in Helmand and my boss is a dick.” He kissed him firmly. “And I’m late for muster.” John pushed off the bed and headed for the door.

“Muster?” the man didn’t sound confused. “Air force?”

“Army.” John flashed him a broad smile from the door as he tapped the tattoo on the back of his left shoulder. “But, James, this is going to keep me warm for the rest of my tour.”

If the smile he received in return wasn’t as broad, John didn’t notice. He ducked out the door and made a mad dash for a cab. God, he should have set an alarm. He made it to the rack in time to change into uniform, stuff his ruck full, and half-run out to the tarmac. He was the last one there, but he wasn’t late.

“Cutting it close there, Watson?”

John grinned as he saw the extra star on his mate’s patch; it was about time they’d promoted him. “Captain Roach!” he clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you! How was Birmingham?”

“Ah, come and gone far too quickly. Did you hear the great news?”

“War’s over and we’re going home?” John asked hopefully.

Roach beamed. “McKenna’s gone. They transferred him to some desk job.”

“Who’d they bring up to replace him?”

“Uh… In actually. Someone new. Major Sholto. Never met him, but a few mates of my brother knew him in Iraq.”

“Iraq,” John considered it.

“Iraq, Yugoslavia, the North,” Roach added. “He’s been around. Serious, like. But not a bad word whispered.”

John gave a nod. “Can’t be worse than McKenna.”

“We’re also getting out of Bastion,” Roach gave him a serious look.

“Kandahar.” John set his jaw. As long as this new CO was a hair better than McKenna, they’d be better off. “Murray!” John greeted as the man appeared behind Roach. Murray immediately smothered a chuckle into his shoulder. John raised a brow, “Bill?”

“You may want to do up your top button,” he huffed out between laughs. Roach failed to keep from snickering too.

“My top button?” John’s eyes narrowed.

Murray straightened to full attention and cleared his throat seriously. “Captain Watson, it’s just that you have a hickey on your neck… Sir.”

John clapped a hand over the mark. “Fuck.”

_John leaned against the bar and waved the man over. “Ein Bier bitte.” He pulled a tenner from his pocket. “Vom Fass.” The barman nodded and turned to pull the pint._

_“That,” a rich voice intoned. “Is not a German accent.”_

_John twisted, resting his hip against the underside of the bar as he crossed his arms over his chest. Well didn’t he feel a bit under dressed in just jeans and a tee-shirt. Then again, it was just a hotel pub in Stuttgart and no one was particularly dressed up; no one except the man standing an arm-span away. “And that’s not a Yankee one.” He raised a brow in challenge. The man glanced down at the nearly empty glass in his hand with a slight blush; it was adorable, and somehow completely at odds with the dressed down suit he was wearing. The jacket and tie had been abandoned and sleeves rolled, but it was clearly a well-fitted suit._

_“Yorkshire, actually,” the man answered softly. The calm and gentle voice contrasting sharply with the man’s six-foot three-inch, well-toned stature._

_“London,” John responded and pursed his lips momentarily. Blonds weren’t really his type. Never had been. But he was curious. Interested, maybe. Attracted, definitely. And hell, it was the last day of furlough. Why not make the best of it? Why not? John grinned and called back to the bartender, “Machen Sie zwei Bier daraus bitte.”_

_A light smile crossed the man’s face. “Your German isn’t bad.”_

_“Passable enough to order a beer or two,” John chuckled. “John,” he stuck out his hand._

_“James,” the man responded and shook John’s hand warmly. “Pleasure.”_

_John paid for the beers and nodded his head toward a table in the corner. “After you.”_

“Captain Watson,” Sholto shuffled the documents back into their respective file folders. John’s shoulders stiffened as he halted just shy of the doorway. “A word please.”

“Major?” he turned back into the room as the last of the other captains and lieutenants managed to escape. First day back, first briefing, and he already felt like he was being called into the principal’s office.

“You are our senior medical officer, are you not?”

John found himself standing in parade rest by default. “I am.”

“And you and your squad are just back from furlough?”

His mouth twitched. Sholto knew damn well they were just back. “Yes, Sir. Just today, Sir.”

“Sit,” Sholto gestured to the chair at his right.

John hesitated. “I prefer to stand.” He wet his lips compulsively. “Sir.”

The Major sighed heavily. “Jesus, John, please just sit down.”

John blinked. That was… unexpected? Nearly unheard of? It made him slightly uncomfortable to sit alone at the table with his CO. His brand new CO. The CO that he’d… He tamped down the blush that threatened his cheeks and sat stiffly in the chair that was offered.

“Tell me,” Sholto tapped a finger on the files in front of him. “How many men do you run in the 5th?”

“Twenty-three with one lieutenant directly. New, actually, as my former lieutenant was promoted to make four more captains. We’ve six more lieutenants with one hundred and thirteen men total,” John recited without hesitation.

“And your squad, the twenty-four of you, how long did you have on leave?”

John shifted, folding his hands in his lap. “Four weeks.”

“That seems rather shorter than regulation.” Sholto raised a brow meaningfully. “I understand the rest of the 5th had nearly three months. Do you have an explanation for that?”

John pursed his lips as he contemplated his answer. “Disciplinary revocation, Sir?”

Sholto let out an irritated sigh. “I have heard about McKenna. I am… Familiar with his… Leadership style.” He gave John a steady look. “And your men, are they ready to be back on active duty? Are they well rested?

A half smile briefly crossed John’s face. “Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Granted,” Sholto gave a small wave. “Please.”

“How many enlisted men do you know that actually rest during furlough?”

Sholto couldn’t keep the single huff from escaping, but shot John a look and exhaled sharply though his nose. “Not rested then.”

“No, Sir. I wouldn’t think so. Not on only four weeks.”

“And yourself?”

John blushed, his cheeks turning crimson instantaneously. “Me, Sir?”

“Are you rested?” Sholto’s shy smirk served both as an apology and insistence for an answer.

“As I can be,” John said simply.

Sholto raised a brow. “Care to elaborate?”

He cleared his throat. “I haven’t set foot in the UK in the past four years.” Had it really been four years? His mother was going to be cross when he finally made it home. “We’ve never had leave long enough to warrant the trip. And with the number of injuries I see…” John gave a grim smile. “I spent the first two weeks sleeping to make up for the past year, the third week storing up for the next year, and the last week…” He glanced at his hands and wet his lips again. “Reacquainting myself with my humanity.”

“Right,” Sholto said simply.

“Sir,” John cursed himself for his apparent inability to find the right words. “I didn’t…”

“Neither did I,” Sholto winced. John felt the tips of his ears burn red with embarrassment. Silence stretched across the large space, broken when Sholto’s fingers began drumming against the files. “Right,” he said finally. “This is what’s going to happen. Your squad is essentially under house arrest for the next three weeks.”

“Sir!” John objected.

“Twice daily PT and drills, alt daily logistics and briefings.”

“But…”

“The whole 5th gets top-to-toe physicals, and proper ones, in the three weeks. You are not on shift in the OT longer than eight hours at any given time, and at the end of the three weeks, we will reassess the situation.”

John had to remind himself to close his mouth and his jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

Sholto gave him a long and hard look. “The 5th have better knowledge and experience out here in the sandbox than anyone else. The surgeons here at Bastion have more hours and skill than anywhere else in the world. It serves absolutely no one to have you dropping like flies. When your squad is back at full snuff, they’ll hit those hills harder than ever, but not before then. Do you understand?”

He did. John understood. It made perfect, logical sense. It was the first mandate that protected his men and furthered their mission out here. And that it was so unfamiliar was like a punch in the solar plexus. “Yes, Sir.”

“Your division of time on patrol with the other medics will no longer disregard the time you spend in theatre or in office with the ill. The same goes for your ODP, Murray. And our other doctor, the lieutenant. Peters, isn’t it? He takes half of the workload on the medical managements and minor complaints. I’ll let his captain know.”

“Some of the men might complain about favoritism,” John tilted his head. “They might say you’re coddling us.”

Sholto snapped upright, the perfect poise of command. “They won’t, because they’ll be so effective, run so smoothly, the other units are going to be green. Every enlisted man is going to want to be in the 5th. We are going to be turning them away for the over abundance of options. We won’t be filling vacancies with untried or untrained soldiers. I am not here to throw bodies at the enemy. I am here to make them throw bodies at us until they run out.”

John studied Sholto, his eye narrowing in appreciation of the shrewdness, the calculation in his tactic. After a moment, he gave a nod. “Yes, Sir.”

Sholto’s posture relaxed ever so slightly. “I know the 5th has been worked hard in the past. Do not mistake me, you will not become complacent. But I won’t have my men running on fumes.”

John nodded. “Understood.”

Sholto gathered the files and stood; John popped up from the chair to salute as his new CO. Sholto acknowledged with one of his own. “I need you on board with this, Watson.”

John’s brows twitched. “I am, Sir.” He was. He was fully on board. “I’m one hundred percent behind you.”

Sholto’s face twitched. “Right.” John turned a vivid shade of red. Sholto cleared his throat, “Dismissed, Captain.”

_It had started with eye contact, silence with an undercurrent of unspoken intent, lazy conversation that superficially gave way to implication, and the cautious brush of fingers. Two rounds. John wondered if he was losing his touch. But therein lies the rub. Everything softly-softly when treading on foreign soil. The offer of a cuppa. And it would be rude to turn down tea. Then again, he was almost sad that it wasn’t a proper cup of tea waiting on the other side of the hotel door. Instead, the light was never turned on. Last day of freedom._

_John closed the door and was immediately pressed against it. He grabbed a fist full of shirt and tugged the man forward, bringing their lips together in a bruising kiss. Warm and firm hands divested him of his tee-shirt and he threaded button after button through eyelets to push fabric from broad shoulders. One day left. And if they weren’t careful, there’d be no clothing left and John would have his bare arse pressed against an unlocked door. And neither of them would have breath left. And maybe he was shorter, but he was stronger than he looked. John pushed from the door and falteringly navigated the distance to the bed. Make it a happy memory, if it was the last one he’d get._

_“What do you want?”_

_“You.”_

John filed the last of the reports away and flopped into the desk chair. That was it. He’d managed to complete all of the physicals, proper ones at that, in the three weeks; he’d only stayed over Sholto’s imposed eight-hour shift in theatre once; and his squad was fully combat ready. The three weeks was up in two days and it felt good to be ahead of schedule. More than that, the rest of the 5th was in decent shape too. Fewer injuries, no casualties; the worst of the surgeries had been from other units.

A knock on his door snapped him out of his revelry. “It’s open!” he called. When the Major walked in, John leapt out of his chair, pulling to attention and saluting in a single movement.

“At ease,” Sholto mumbled wearily.

John relaxed his posture slightly, “Sir?”

“Sit,” Sholto waved back to the chair and John frowed as he acquiesced. Sholto sat stiffly in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Where are we?”

John wet his lips. “I’ve just completed the final report. 5th is good to go, my squad is good to go, the new rotas for OT are good to go,” John flashed a grin. “I’d say we, as a whole, are rather good to go.”

“Are we now?” Sholto raised a brow.

John felt his smile wane. Did he forget something? He had forgotten something. Sholto was exacting. What the fuck did he forget? Bugger. “Sir?”

“You’ve done all the phyiscals?” Sholto asked dryly. “ _All_ of them?”

John’s brows drew together. He had. All of them. Done up each report himself. Had Peter’s do his physical and report it. That was… everyone. All one hundred and thirteen. Reported. And filed. “Sir?”

Sholto gave an aborted sigh of irritation. “Am I to understand that I am not included in the 5th?”

Ah. The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “I…”

“You assumed that I meant everyone in the 5th except me.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, I meant no disrespect.”

“No,” Sholto said flatly. “But you’re still accustomed to your CO having his own set of rules.”

“Old habits,” John chewed on his lower lip. “It was an oversight on my part.” Mea culpa. “It won’t happen again, Sir.”

“Mmn,” Sholto gave a sharp nod. “See that it doesn’t.”

John swallowed and nodded slowly. He was used to failure, but this one seemed rather personal. He half expected a vindictive, retaliatory KP for his mistake. Sholto, however, remained in the patient chair with a rather bored look on his face. “Um, I…” John started, then managed to keep from saying something stupid. “Sir?”

Sholto’s head tilted carefully. “You’re the doctor here, Watson. I assumed you knew how to perform these physicals.”

“Oh,” John’s face turned a deep shade of red. Oh… He cleared his throat. “I’m not… Sir, I don’t think it would be, necessarily, completely appropriate, if… If I were to act…”

Sholto actually rolled his eyes and pulled his off his beret to toss it on the desk. “We are living in a war zone. Do you think it truly matters to me which medic is responsible for my health?”

John felt like he’d been slapped. He pulled his shoulders back and pursed his lips. “I would think it should matter deeply. You should only want the best.”

“And why do you think I’m here?”

John flushed again, this time from the flattery and continued embarrassment. He heaved a long sigh and finally looked up from where his hands were clenched on the desk. He set his jaw, schooled his face, and gave a sharp nod. Pure professionalism. “Yes, Sir.”

The major raised a brow. “I need you behind me on this.”

John huffed. “Behind you one hundred percent, Sir.”


	10. Broken Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 10 TWs  
> \- Gun violence  
> \- Graphic descriptions of war  
> \- Graphic description of injury  
> \- Blood
> 
> Hell is breaking loose. Quick dedication: Happy Birthday Lauryn - Here have some angst :) As always, massive thank you to Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know. And brace yourselves... Everything unravels from here.
> 
> **"Your values are all shot. But oh my heart was flawed, I knew my weakness. So hold my hand, consign me not to darkness. So crawl on my belly ‘til the sun goes down, I’ll never wear your broken crown. I took the road and I fucked it all away…"**  
>  ~ Broken Crown, Mumford & Sons

_The loud report of machine gun fire sliced through the eerie silence of the village. “Contact left!”_

_Even over the sharp exchanged crackle of high-powered assault rifles, John could hear the shout and scream. Goddammit!_

_“Take cover!”_

_“ADAMS!”_

_The warning was too late. John knew it was too late. Everyone knew it was too late as they dove for the sparse cover of the nearby buildings. So much for a stealthy recon. John tucked himself into a deep door-well, flinching as plaster exploded near his shoulder. “Get down!” he shouted, gesturing to the men following._

_“Captain, Adams is down!”_

_“Fuck!” John dropped into a crouch to radio in. “Major, we’ve got a problem!”_

_“Watson, what’s going on?”_

_“Middle of the suck, Sir!” John barked through his radio, trying to get a read on Adams’ state. “They knew we were coming. We are taking heavy machine-gun fire. No grenades or RPGs. Bit pinned down though. I’ve one in the field to retrieve rather urgently.” Urgently: bleeding out in the middle of the town square._

_“Roach’s squad is heading in from the east side. I’ll be coming in behind you. Hold your position; we’ll get you some support.”_

_“Aye, Sir!” John made a quick assessment. “Murphy!” he shouted to his new lieutenant. “Take Davies, Clark, Malcolm and Harris. Get us some cover fire from that building. We need some breathing room. Roach is coming from the east side of town, clear their path.”_

_“Yes, Sir!” Murphy called, disappearing around a corner with three other men._

_“Bill!” Murray was at his side in a flash; the man never seemed far away. “Bill, take Morris, Allen, O’Neill, and Lee. And MacDonald as a spotter. Take the building here on the right. I want you on the roof.”_

_“Sniper?” Murray squinted at what buildings were visible from their position. “You seen one?”_

_John shook his head. “Not yet.”_

_“Mmn,” Murray gave a nod. “I’m on it.”_

_John grinned. “Cheers.”_

_“Do NOT be an idiot, Sir,” Murray smiled back._

_John gave him an innocent look. “Nothing idiotic about retrieving an injured soldier. Keep me covered.”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_John watched the two smaller teams split and took a head count. Rukin, Evans, and Smith had decent cover and were returning fire; Palmer, Kinlin, and Gleeson were immediately off to his left, but struggling to keep clear of the attack; Quinn and Price were the only two further afield and were keeping their heads down; and that left Reid, Campbell, and Brown bringing up the rear, well covered but too far back to be effective. Shit._

_He was ready to push forward when his radio clipped in. “Don’t even think about it, Watson. I’m two minutes away.”_

_He laughed. “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I need to get Adams out of that square.” Reid and Campbell joined Smith and better defended their position in the tight street, but they were still pinned out of the square. Fucking hell._

“Murphy,” John toggled on the com as he opened the fluid line to run fast. “We’re set here.”

“No problem, Captain,” Murphy radioed back. “Just taking them back home, yeah?”

“Slow and steady, follow Major Sholto. He’ll make sure everyone gets back in one piece. Keep Malcolm up with you; he knows how it works.”

“Yes, Sir.”

John lifted his eyes from where his gloved hands were back to keeping pressure on Adams’ abdomen and squinted towards the town. “Sorry it had to be your first one out, Lieutenant.”

A belly laugh came back over the radio. “Not a worry, Cap’t. You know us Murphys. We’ve a law. Seems it holds with me as well.”

“I had an intern like you. Same problem.”

Murphy chuckled. “She was my cousin, Hamish.”

“Oh dear God,” John groaned. “You’re going to be a disaster.”

“We’re clear, Captain,” the pilot called.

John glanced at Murray who gave a sharp nod. “We’re ready,” he responded.

“Hold on.”

John kept an eye on the vitals as the ground dropped sharply away. No matter how many airlifts he rode on, the sensation at helo takeoff made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He braced himself and took a few deep and even breaths. When they touched down, he and Murray would be running straight into surgery.

_“Sir, I can reach him!” John shouted angrily._

_“You will NOT!” Sholto snapped. “Thompson! Get your unit up in these buildings and get us some cover fire!”_

_“Sir!” John objected, dropping his heavy pack in preparation. “He needs medical attention!”_

_“You sit your ass down, Captain!”_

_John turned away angrily and peered into the square. Where was that fucking sniper? He’d be on higher ground, but not a roof—too visible. A window or door, big building, but not ostentatious. John sniffed angrily. He’d have to have a view of the square, angles towards Adams, towards his squad, towards Roach’s squad. John squinted. Back to the sun, no glare from other windows…_

_John saw the glint and was in motion before his throat caught up with his brain. “Down!” He threw himself at Sholto, tackling him into the corner of the alcove as a heavy caliber round exploded into the wall behind them._

_“Damnit!” Sholto hissed, clutching his left shoulder as the ricochet clipped through the sleeve and carved a furrow into his skin._

_John rolled off and took off at a sprint. It would take less than ten seconds to reach cover from that sniper and he’d already planned his course. He slid into a crouch against the next wall and paused, barely flinching as another shot clipped the corner of his cover. “Murray,” he growled into his radio, “Tell me you saw that.”_

_“Sorry, Sir. I’ve the building, but there are about fifty different windows.”_

_John groaned and peaked around the corner. “Do you need me to get shot at again, Bill, or do you think you can cover me cleanly?”_

_Another crack sounded, but the target was far off to his side and John barely caught a glimpse of helmet as the other soldier ducked out of sight. “That was close, Captain. Tell Roach to keep his head down, yeah?”_

_“Watson!” Sholto’s voice actually carried as John heard it simultaneously in his com and echoing around the square. “Fall back! NOW!”_

_Another blast, closer this time, and John pushed up, sprinting to the fountain steps. A statue exploded behind him a moment later. He glanced over his left shoulder as Roach slid to a crouch next to him. John raised a brow, “Would have thought Sholto had you covering the road.”_

_Roach grinned. “Couldn’t send a corporal out here to retrieve you, John. If you want something done right… My old Captain taught me that.”_

_John smiled. “Sounds like an idiot.”_

_“Oh he is.” Roach chuckled._

_John joined in for a moment. “Bill, do you have him yet?”_

_“I do,” Murray whispered over the radio. “What type of shit rifle… Major, take cover.”_

_“WATSON! You dumb sonuvabitch!”_

_Two rifle shots sounded back to back and the two captains ducked low against the stone steps. “Sholto’ll kill you when you get back,” Roach murmured._

_“Don’t care,” John hissed. “As long as Adams is alive, yeah?”_

_Roach nodded._

_“John, that’s the second shot he’s taken at the Major. I might have clipped him and I disrupted his nest, but he’s not out of play.”_

_“Now or never, then, Bill?” John asked._

_“It’s the clearest it’s been, and I know where he’s sitting.”_

_John glanced at Roach, “Ready?”_

_“As ever.”_

_They split up, taking shelter behind the fountain and pillars and statues until they reached Adams. John dropped to one knee at the man’s side as Roach stood guard. “Don’t move. Just lay still,” he hushed him. Fuck, his knee was blown to bits and he was bleeding from another wound on his torso. John wrapped a quick tourniquet around the leg and frowned. “Help me get him up?”_

_“Dead man’s or between us?” Roach asked, eying the injuries._

_“Between us, we’ll be faster.”_

_Glass shattered and they both ducked, John covering Adams under his own torso. Murray clipped in on the coms. “That mother fucker keeps ducking my shots. Haul ass, Captain.”_

_“On it!” They hoisted Adams and the man screamed. They hobbled. It was awkward. “Come on, come on,” John chanted through clenched teeth. They made a bee-line for Roach’s squad and the closer shelter of the dropped road. Murray took another shot and swore softly into the radio. They reached the low wall and John shifted to take the full weight, “Go on then.”_

_Roach slipped free and dropped over the edge, waving Peters forward to help catch Adams. John shifted the weight forward and watched them ease Adams onto the stretcher below._

_The impact preceded the sound, but only just and John felt himself knocked backwards to the dirt pavement three feet below. He landed flat on his back with enough force that he blacked out._

John sighed heavily and rocked back on his heels. “Thanks, Gav. Couldn’t have done this on my own today.”

“Course. You’re just in, I had the time, and frankly, we’ve dropped the number of above-knees we’ve been doing.” Gavin nodded solemnly. “Though, you and Bill could probably have done this blindfolded after McKenna…”

The snort he gave was tired and lacked any humor. “Pretty sure McKenna was the blind one. But I’ll take the compliment. Bill is the one that does the heavy lifting anyway.”

Bill grinned. “Can’t have you lifting with a scalpel in your hand, Captain.”

All three chuckled as they started to strip their gloves and scrub gowns. “I’ll pop round to see him in recovery in an hour, yeah?” John gave a nod to the head sister. “If he wakes sooner, come find me. I should be the one to talk to him.”

“WATSON!”

John jumped as the door to the theater smashed open with force near enough to fly off its hinges. He pulled to attention out of instinct before he registered the need. Sholto was still in his combat fatigues, still dusty from the skirmish, and absolutely sparking with anger. John swallowed. “Sir?”

“My office!” he snapped. “Now!”

The door slammed in Sholto’s wake, leaving the theatre eerily still. John blinked as Gavin broke the silence letting out tight breath. “Jesus, John. What did you do?”

“I… I dunno.” John tightened his jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that pissed before.”

“Well,” Murray dropped a hand on John’s shoulder. “It’s a rude way to thank you for saving his hide.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of him as he scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. “Fuck.”

_“John?”_

_“Captain?”_

_“Watson, you arse, get the fuck up!”_

_“John!”_

_“WATSON!”_

_John groaned and coughed, curling in around his right side as he sucked in air. “Jesus.” It felt like he’d been kicked by a mule. “Fuck.”_

_Roach let out a whoop and grabbed his lapels. “Watson, you bleeding idiot!”_

_John coughed again. “Fuck, get offa me, Roach.”_

_“Captain?” Murray’s voice clipped in over the com. “John, you ok?”_

_“I’m good,” he hissed, trying to push himself up onto his elbows. Peters gave him helping hand. “What the fuck was that?”_

_“Sniper round,” Roach finished prying the crushed bullet from the right side of John’s body armor. “Looks like it passed through your journal, the ceramic plates. Caught on the Kevlar.” Roach gave a low whistle. “You are one lucky bastard, Watson.” He dropped the still warm bullet into John’s outstretched hand._

_“WATSON!”_

_John cringed at the volume of the shout in his ear. “Yes, Major.” He cleared his throat. “We need a medevac. And I need Murray with me ASAP.”_

_The sound of cursing reached them on a delay and Roach started to smile. John rubbed absently at the hole in his armor and huffed out a laugh; even that effort was enough to send fingers of pain along his right ribcage. “Damn lucky,” Roach murmured then broke into grin and chuckled. “But Sholto is going to kill you.”_

He only managed to catch up to the Major as he opened the door to his office by ignoring protocol and chasing after him in theatre scrubs. “Sir?”

“In,” Sholto hissed.

John sighed and followed through the open door. Perhaps it was fatigue, maybe it was post-op let down, post-skirmish complacency, but John wasn’t paying attention. He closed the door gently and instantly found himself slammed face-first against it, his right arm twisted high behind his back and a firm hand at the nape of his neck. “What the fuck!” He tried to push off the door, but only felt his arm torqued further in response.

“What in the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Sholto snarled in his ear. John clenched his teeth to bite back a rude response, but he grimaced with the effort. “I said, ‘No.’ And you ignored it.” The hand on the back of his neck tightened for emphasis, and in spite of the cool wood beneath his cheek, John could feel his skin heating with his temper. “You risked your life and the lives of your entire squad.”

Anger and instinct overrode his better judgment and he lashed out, hooking a leg behind one of Sholto’s and twisting as he pulled forward. Short, low center of gravity, and always, _always_ woefully underestimated, John readily reversed their positions, throwing the Major into the door and pinning him there with a hand tight around his throat. “And nobody died!” John roared. “Adams is alive, thanks for fucking caring!” His eyes were dark and glinting with rage. “No one leaves one of my men to die!”

Sholto’s expression went cold. “Your men?” One brow arched.

John blinked as it slowly dawned that he had a hand wrapped around his Commander’s airway. He sucked in a sharp breath and stepped back, holding his hands up. “Sir… I…”

This time he was half expecting it, but his back met the door with enough force to jar his spine. A palm planted firmly over his sternum to hold him in place and John didn’t fight it. He pressed his eyes shut and tried to breath away the fury, venting small pieces of rage through pursed lips. And he winced as Sholto leaned forward and the pressure on his sternum increased; the muscles underlying the deep bruising clenched, sending another wave of adrenaline through his system. The pain was a sharp reality check.

The weight released as a single finger hooked in the vee of his scrub top and eased it away from his chest. And John opened his eyes to watch the expression on Sholto’s face shift from cold rage into something fierce. “You should see a medic.”

John furrowed his brow and wet his lips compulsively. “I am a medic.” It was in poor humor, but he didn’t see any other way out of the tension. Sholto huffed once and lifted his eyes from John’s chest to meet his gaze. It was a mistake. It was all one giant mistake. They couldn’t laugh about it. And John’s blood hummed beneath his skin at the look he received. And no one was laughing.

“You,” his voice rolled like thunder. “You are the senior medical officer for the 5th.”

John felt his chest heaving with each breath as he met Sholto’s stare. “Yes, Sir.”

“Shut up,” Sholto snapped. “You are a Captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps.” He leaned down to bring his face inches from John’s. “You are not allowed to risk your life imprudently.”

“Imprudently?” John couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching.

“You jumped in front of a bullet,” Sholto rasped.

John narrowed his eyes. “There was a sniper.”

“I said, ‘Shut. Up.’” Sholto’s hand returned to John’s chest, crowding him further against the door. “You threw yourself in front of a bullet before you went and got yourself shot.”

John lifted his chin, tilting into what little space remained between them. “I saved your life,” he ground out.

“You…” Sholto’s face practically convulsed with simultaneous expressions. “You bloody idiot!” John had a fraction of a second to suck in a breath before Sholto’s mouth crashed into his own, heat and teeth and lips forming a punishing kiss. It was bruising and fierce, angry and lewd, and John leaned into, swallowing the fervor like a man half starved. “You,” Sholto caught John’s face between his palms. “Are indispensable.”

John’s brows twitched. “And you aren’t?”

“John, please,” Sholto groaned. “You are not expendable. Do you understand? Not to me.”

There should have been words. There should have been voice to the sensation in his chest, but John couldn’t seem to find it. Out of pure exasperation, he hooked his hand around the nape of Sholto’s neck and drew him back down. He wasn’t much for talking; he never had been. Humor and sarcasm aside, John never could express himself adequately through conversation. But there were other ways to communicate. With hands and tension and tongues and twisting. Tugging a shirt free, the roll of hips, the slide of palms on skin, a sharp exhale, a groan, a gasp, a whine. The sting of teeth against a kiss swollen lower lip.

Thumbs dug into the soft skin by his hipbones, flattening his spine to the door, pinning him in place as Sholto sucked at the skin above his collarbone.

“God,” he groaned, his fingers twisting in short blond hair. “Don’t… Dammit. Don’t leave a mark this time.”

“This time?” he huffed against John’s neck, dragging his lips to the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Is that why you were so buttoned up on day one?”

John shuddered as Sholto nipped at his ear. “Always buttoned up,” John tried to squirm, fighting a losing battle with his own restraint. Letting his spine go lax was almost too far a surrender and John let out a frustrated whine.

And the Major pulled slowly away. “Sorry...” Sholto murmured, brushing his nose across John’s cheek. “I’m… I’m normally in better control of myself.”

John struggled to calm himself, recognize the prudence in stopping. He ran a soothing hand down the man’s back. “Not sure getting buggered over the Major’s desk is still SOP.”

“John.”

He freed his hand from beneath Sholto’s shirt and pressed it to his chest. “Not funny?”

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he whispered, resting his forehead against John’s.

“Court marshal?” John swallowed heavily. “Firing squad. I hear stoning is still in fashion here.”

“Stop,” he sighed, tightening his grip on John’s hips. “Please. John.”

“Nothing,” John answered hoarsely. “And I’ll tell everyone that I’ve been properly chastised.”

“And are you?”

“This is punishment.”

“I know.”

John grunted.

“Will that be enough?”

“Honestly?” he tilted his chin up obstinately. “I was sure you were going to have me publicly flogged. They’ll believe it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” They stared at each other for a long minute. John gave a small nod finally and repeated himself. “Yes.” He gave the Major’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. The gesture was met with a sharp hiss and Sholto pulled away like he’d been burned. “Ja-… Sir?”

“It’s nothing,” he paced across the room a few times before perching on his desk with his arms crossed.

John knew before he looked at his hand. He knew the feeling of it, knew the smell. And nothing could cool him off faster. “Were you going to tell me that you’re injured?” he asked flatly, glancing at the blood coating the fingers of his right hand.

Sholto stared at him for a long moment before answering. “It didn’t seem highly pertinent.”

“Jesus, and you call me the idiot,” John muttered.

“You are an idiot,” Sholto hissed. “At least I wasn’t shot in the chest!”

“I’m not the one bleeding on my uniform!” John crossed his arms to mirror the stubbornness. “Did you even clean it?”

“I don’t need you doting on me like a mother hen.”

“No? Well, you clearly are in need of medical attention,” John snapped angrily.

“And I believe you are supposed to be my doctor!” Sholto barked back.

John took a long, hard breath in through is nose and set his jaw. “Fine.” He scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair and reined in his temper again. “Fine.” He sighed. “Just… Give me a minute to change out of the scrubs and I’ll be in the medical cabin.” John shook his head as he tugged the door open. “Jesus…”

“I…” The Major nodded and seemed to sag resignedly against the desk. “I’ll be right behind you.”


	11. Everybody Wants To Rule the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's Fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 11 TWs  
> \- Gun violence  
> \- Graphic description of war  
> \- Graphic description of injury  
> \- Death  
> \- Torture  
> \- Blood
> 
> Remember when I said that the fluff was necessary to make it through... Well, here we go... (I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry)... This is probably the darkest chapter I've got for you from a physical perspective, and it is dark. Let's just say that while we knew this was coming, we may not have expected this whole thing. Massive thank you to to my bun Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know. If you haven't heard Lorde's cover of EWtRtW, I highly recommend it. It is gorgeous in its own right and it fits the mood here so very, very well. Brace yourselves, I've taken off the brakes... 
> 
> **“There’s a room where the light won’t find you, holding hands while the walls come tumbling down. When they do, I’ll be right behind you. So glad we’ve almost made it. So sad they had to fade it. Everybody wants to rule the world…”**  
>  ~ Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Lorde (orig. Tears for Fears)

Apparently hell had frozen over. It was strange, John always assumed hell would be the fire and brimstone promised him as a child. Yet here he was, shivering from the cold and dead. He had to be dead. Everyone else was dead. And so was he.

The cold metal floor beneath him shook violently and dropped an inch or two and John winced as his shoulder and head made a dull sound thumping against the ground. Not dead then. Cold and pain, but not dead. Great. He groaned and tried to take stock. Head: sore, dizzy, throbbing from the left temple, maybe concussed. He could taste blood in his mouth, but duct tape… Lovely. He tried to open his eyes and the world spun. Ok, definitely concussed. He took a few deep, steadying breaths. Hands: behind his back, rope, his wrists were chaffed, but he could still feel his fingers. Feet: free, functional, and he still had his boots. That was surprising; he’d expected them to take his boots, especially since they’d taken his armor and his jacket. No wonder he was cold, he’d been stripped to his tee-shirt.

The distant humming changed again and preceded another jolting motion. Vehicle. He was in a vehicle. That was bad. Bad. Shit. He grunted and forced his eyes open again. In a truck of some sort. He tried to rock back onto his knees, but another pothole or divot or boulder in the road shook the chassis and sent him sprawling onto his shoulder again. Fuck. He managed to shove back to the side of the truck, supporting his spine against the wall there and sitting upright. Fuck he was dizzy. He pressed his eyes shut one more time then tried to get his bearings. Dark. Open back truck, canvas top. Maybe he could…

The truck stopped sharply and he tumbled to his side. Vertigo. Tinnitus. Nausea. Pain. Cold. Someone grabbed one of his ankles and he kicked out as hard as he could as he was dragged across the bed of the truck and dropped onto the ground. Struggling, fighting, scrapping for any inch of freedom only gained him a fat lip and a few solid kicks to his ribs and kidneys. He grunted angrily as he was hauled to his feet and dragged into the nearest building.

_It was hot. God it was hot. And John was so tempted to take a nap. They were on the way back. They couldn’t be more than an hour out now. He glanced out the window. Dust and sand. There wasn’t much of a haze anymore, the heat having burnt off any of the moisture collected overnight leaving the baked late afternoon. What a long, boring, rubbish, useless day. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. Town. The last one before they’d make it back to base. Nearly there. Nearly there, nearly asleep, nearly… This is where mistakes happen._

_He turned in his seat to address the two lads in the back. “Eyes up. This is where it gets dangerous.”_

_They shifted, both Evans and Smith pulling themselves more upright, and taking in the change of surroundings. “Yes, Sir.”_

_The corner of his mouth twitched in a half smile then he turned back to the windscreen, the sides of low buildings tightening on the Humvees. He clicked on the com, “Lieutenant, how’s it look upfront?”_

_“Quiet, Sir.”_

_John raised a brow. “Quiet?”_

_“Dead quiet.”_

_John frowned. “Tell Gleeson to take it handy. And keep alert. I don’t like quiet.”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_“Quiet?” Malcolm grumbled from behind the wheel. When John only grunted, he frowned as well. “Was it supposed to be quiet?”_

_“No,” John answered flatly. “So keep your eyes peeled, Eddie.”_

_“Always, Captain.”_

_John felt his fingers drum against his sidearm for a few moments before clicking back on the coms. “Murray?”_

_“Captain?”_

_“How far behind us are you?”_

_“Maybe fifteen minutes.”_

_John considered it. “Maybe I’m being paranoid here, but I don’t want the back half within the city limits until the front three are out.”_

_“You just want to get to the mess first and keep all the good food to yourselves,” Murray snarked._

_John hummed as he smiled. “You know me too well.”_

_“Something wrong?”_

_“No,” John replied too quickly. “Not yet.”_

_“Got it,” Murray’s voice dropped low._

_“Hold back until the first three are on the other side, yeah?”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_John clicked off the com again and shifted in the seat._

_Malcolm glanced over at him. “When was the last time this route was swept?”_

_He crossed his arms. “Engineers were here four days ago.”_

_“Just long enough,” Malcolm muttered. “The fuck?”_

_The Humvee out front stopped suddenly and Malcolm compensated, halting quickly. John clicked on the coms. “Murphy, what the fuck is going on?”_

_“Sorry, Captain. There’s… A cart in the road.”_

_“Cart?” John frowned. “MacDonald, give us space.” He glanced in the side mirror. “In fact, I don’t like this. Fall back and join Murray.”_

_“Yes, Sir. Are you sure?”_

_“Positive. Murray?”_

_“Sir?”_

_“MacDonald is coming back to you. Go around. I don’t like this.”_

_“John.”_

_“Bill. Do it.”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_“Malcolm, I want you to very, very slowly back up to give Gleeson a bit of space, yeah?” Malcolm nodded and started to reverse._

_The force of the explosion was enough to rock their Humvee up onto two wheels as the RPG collided with the rear axel. John swore violently as he was thrown against the door._

John bit back a yelp as the tape was ripped from his mouth. There was more shouting, there were more angry gestures, and in spite of his best efforts at diplomacy, which consisted of every violent cuss word he knew, there were more guns in his face and extra knuckles to his ribs. He tried to care. He tried to find that part of himself that was scared, that was a survivalist, that held his self-preservation and desire to live. He tried and came up empty, and instead spat at the nearest person. The next blow knocked him clean out of the chair. And he tucked into a ball, trying to protect his abdomen from a flying boot.

Boots. The same boots. John clenched his jaw as one pressed into his shoulder and forced him over onto his back. He glared up at the man with unmasked fury. “You don’t speak Pashto.” The flat of the boot pressed down on his ribs and John hissed angrily. “Pity.”

“Fuck you,” John seethed.

The boot smashed into his side and John roared out a swear. “Get him up.” It took two of them to drag him back into the chair, and he panted against the protest from his ribs. If looks could kill, the man would have been incinerated by the glare John gave him. “I only want to know one thing.”

John shook his head slowly, biting back a wry laugh. “Just kill me.”

The man smiled. “Where’s Moran?”

_It was horrifyingly quiet again, and John was afraid to look up. He was afraid. Terrified. Horrified. “Hang on, Ed.” If he looked up, he’d have to face the reality that his imagination had already supplied. He knew both Humvees were completely destroyed, his an actual burning shell. He knew they were wedged in. No escape forward, no escape back. He knew that Gleeson was dead; he’d seen him caught in the vehicle before it was hit with a second explosive. He knew Rukin was dead; he’d seen him shot, and shot again. That he couldn’t hear Evans or Smith returning fire anymore, that he hadn’t seen Murphy since they pulled back around the blind corner, that he was barely keeping Malcolm’s bowels in his body… No, he didn’t need to look._

_The muzzle of a rifle jabbed at his shoulder as someone shouted and John’s face twitched, but he refused to lift his hands. Jesus, if he lifted his hands Malcolm was done. The blood was already welling between his fingers, pooling in the depression his pressure was making. Someone shouted something at him again. He shook his head, ducking further over the Eddie. He didn’t understand what was being yelled, but it really didn’t matter; John Watson was not moving. “Malcolm, you’re alright, son.”_

_More shouting. Another jab from an angry submachine gun. “No!” John barked. “Medic! I’m a medic!” Let me do my fucking job! Or just fucking shoot me now, because I’m not moving. “Look at me,” John murmured to Malcolm. “I’ve got you. I’m not moving, Ed.” And into the chaos swirling around the pair of them, he shouted the one word in Pashto he knew—Doctor._

_There was a lull. A hushed stillness that had John tensing, his hackles up even higher than they already were. The shooting had stopped, the shouting was gone, the dust was settling. Head down, Watson. Boots stopped just shy of Malcolm’s side, and John knew command when he saw it. Head down. “I’ve got you,” he whispered._

_John shouted in alarm as two pairs of firm hands grabbed his upper arms and heaved him backwards. “Let Go!” They pulled him halfway upright, half dragging half carrying, hauling him away from Malcolm. “No! NO!” John shrieked, tugging madly at his arms. “NO! Malcolm!” He threw his body sideways and got a solid punch into his gut for his trouble. The boots, the man who wore them, the one who seemed to be in charge, stepped over Malcolm, glaring down at the fallen soldier. John pulled his head up, gritting his teeth and trying his best to dislocate his own shoulders to get free. Then there was a gun. In the man’s hand. “N-NO!” John screamed. “Ed! No! Please!”_

_The sound of the gunshot was like a physical blow. John’s muscles went slack with the shock of it. “Malcolm.” The name puffed out of him feebly as the man holstered his pistol and turned to glare at John. It was a small movement, the tip of a head, the flick of a hand, and pain exploded from the side of John’s head as he dropped into unconsciousness._

There were many things John Watson could tolerate. He’d learned to take a beating from a very young age. He’d learned to take abuse without flinching. He’d learned to do without comfort and without support. And he’d learned to shoulder the responsibility of every mistake he’d ever made. But not this. “Don’t do this!”

The man watched him blankly. “It’s a simple question. Just tell me where Moran is and this stops.”

“I don’t know!” he bellowed, pulling against the restraining hands as the man pressed the pistol to his lieutenant’s left knee.

“Colonel Moran.”

Colonel. Colonel? Where had he heard that? Had he heard that? Colonel Moran. Fuck. He’d heard of Moran. And in a flash, John tried to mask the recognition that flit across his face. He blinked and turned his face up, hoping for another punch. “I don’t know.” John couldn’t keep from flinching as the trigger pulled. Murphy screamed out a series of cuss words and gasped through the pain. “I don’t know! I don’t!” John shouted. “Please!”

“Moran.”

John swallowed heavily, his eyes tracking the path of the pistol. “Don’t…” The breath seemed to punch out of his own chest as the barrel pressed into the back of his lieutenant’s skull. Murphy winced, but the pain from his leg was too distracting.

“You know the name.”

John desperately searched for an option. Any option. Anything other than losing another friend. Anything. “Please.”

“If you have nothing else to add.”

The gun pressed hard enough to force Murphy’s head down. “No!” John grimaced. “Please. I…”

“I am not patient.”

“He’s an American,” John blurted out. “That’s all I know. I’ve heard the name, but only in reference to the Yanks.” John wet his lips, his eyes flicking between the pistol and the blood pooling on the floor. Anything to get Murphy out of this. Anything. He was going to bleed out at this rate. Anything.

The man tilted his head slowly. “Hmm.”

“Just… Just please. Don’t,” John pled. A slow smile stretched across the man’s face and John couldn’t quite believe the expression. The corner of his mouth twitched; no, he didn’t believe it. He felt his brows draw down. “No,” he whispered. “Nate!” John launched himself from the chair as the man pulled the trigger again.

_“Captain?”_

_“Captain?!”_

_“What the fuck is going on, MacDonald?”_

_“Murray, it’s an ambush!”_

_“Get the fuck out of there!”_

_John’s voice carried over the radio, “Fall back! Do you hear me?! Get out! Bill! Get them out!”_

_“John?”_

_“Please, Bill, now!”_

_“Captain, what do we do?”_

_“Captain?”_

_“Murray? What… What do we do?”_

_“MacDonald, can you find high ground? Get a vantage point?”_

_“Not if I want to get these lads out.”_

_“What if they drop you off?”_

_There was a low chuckle. “If they drop me off, I’ll relay everything.”_

_“Do it. And Davies, as soon as he’s out the door, you do not stop until you reach us, is that understood?”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_“I’m out. Give me two minutes.”_

_“Davies, good progress?”_

_“Nearly there. I can see smoke. It was totally a set up.”_

_“I know, mate.”_

_“Murray?”_

_“Yeah, Mac?”_

_“It… It’s…”_

_“What do you see, Mac?”_

_There was a long silence over the radio. “There are at least four down. Both Humvees are… Are done.”_

_“Do you…” Murray cleared his throat. “Survivors?”_

_“No one moving.”_

_Murray grit his teeth as Davies’ vehicle cleared the town. “So where are the rest of them?” Silence. “Mac?”_

_“Bill… There are drag marks and tire tracks.”_

_“Goddammit. Get the Major on the line.”_

John wasn’t crying. He certainly wasn’t crying. But he might have been hyperventilating. He couldn’t breathe. His ribs were on fire, and that last fist had bloodied his nose, the metallic tang running down his throat. When the warm muzzle of the gun dug into the center of his forehead, he couldn’t really be surprised. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “I don’t…”

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Then just kill me,” John rasped.

The gun shifted, digging into the soft tissue beneath his jaw, forcing his face up. The man raised a brow. “Kill you?”

John’s brow twitched as his chin tilted indignantly.

“Doctor,” the man mused. John felt the sneer pull across his face. “Take his hand.”

What? The words washed over him before it registered and he was dragged out of the chair. What? Someone released his wrists from the ropes. No. And his self-preservation resurfaced. And John fought. He threw his weight and tugged and pulled and thrashed and took the smallest satisfaction when his boot connected with a knee, when his elbow found a nose, when he managed to knock his forehead into a jaw.

A solid kick to the back of his right knee caused it to buckle and his body folded forward. His left arm was twisted sharply up his back and a gun found a pleasant home pressed into the base of his skull. No amount of squirming would free his arm and the barrel of the gun dug painfully into his scalp. His right arm was stretched over a crate, and no matter how John tried to pull away, it was futile. He fisted his right hand and yanked again, letting out a shout. He should be proud that it’d take at least three of them to do this, but it was small solace.

“Doctor,” the man hissed again, flicking open a small blade. “Here,” he drew the blade slowly and deeply across John’s forearm. John cried out with pain and impotent rage as he tried to free himself. “Lop it off here.” He could feel the warm blood pooling under his chilled skin and shuddered from the sensation. “And let him watch.”

The gun shifted aside so that someone could grab a fist full of his hair and his head was wrenched back. John pressed his eyes shut and grit his teeth. He couldn’t watch. He just couldn’t. He was dead anyway; what else could they do if he wouldn’t watch? Shoot him? He was dead anyway. The loud crack came in conjunction with the warm spray across his face and a metallic clatter and John flinched. With the next blast John felt his arm and scalp release with a backward tug; another crack and his other arm suddenly freed. John ducked down, throwing his arms over his head as the shots burst around him in rapid succession.

He kept his head down only long enough for the distance shots to stop, then eased up onto his hands and knees. No, a gun. He needed a gun. He scrambled to collect the pistol that’d been held to his head only a moment prior and checked the clip. It had bullets and that was enough. He snapped the clip back into place as noise and clamber edged closer to the room. Stand up. Get on your fucking feet. Up, Watson. Get up!

Pain shot through his ribs and chest as he pushed off the block. He purposely didn’t look at his arm or wrists, feeling the sting of the open wounds and crusty drying blood told him enough. He got his left leg under him, but crumpled over his right, the tingling shooting down from the back of his thigh. Pins and needles everywhere. He swore as his knees hit the earth. Calamity descended upon the room.

He gave up trying to get to his feet, settling on keeping his right knee down, grounding himself with his left foot and passing the pistol into his left hand. Double tap. He pivoted, twisting to find his marks, and anything that moved was getting shot. Double tap. There was no reason for his hands to be as steady as they were, but he didn’t question it. He didn’t care. Double tap, double tap, shift, double tap. He held his breath, sweeping his arm back to center. Double tap. Another burst of gunfire distantly echoed into the building, but it quickly vanished and John was left panting in the stillness.

“Clear.” It came from at least a hundred yards away, but it was crisp and audible and in perfect English. John felt his shoulders start to tremble with the effort of keeping the pistol up. He waited until they could see them, until he was sure, until the desert print was crisp and names on the uniforms were legible in the low light.

“Watson?”

John knew that voice. He knew it. “Major?” He huffed out a small laugh of disbelief. Just the one. Then he sagged, letting his arms drop to his side as his legs gave way. He slumped the short distance to the ground, landing on his arse and the impact jarred his entire body. He cringed and scooted backwards just far enough to let the crate support his back. He was still alive.

“John.”

He pressed his eyes shut tightly and tried to steady himself by breathing heavily through his nose. And it hurt. He told himself that his throat was tight from pain. It had nothing to do with relief, nothing to do with finding himself still alive. And the shivering was the sweat and blood cooling on his skin in the chill night. And the pounding in his ears was from adrenaline. Pain and cold and adrenaline. Not shock. He wasn’t in shock. He wouldn’t go into shock. Not allowed, he told himself.

“John.”

He jumped from the contact as warm palms captured his face, his eyes flashing open as his breath seemed to shudder free of his throat.

“John,” Sholto repeated. “Look at me.”

He blinked; he blinked and his eyes flit over the face only inches from his own. Friendly. It was a friend. The exhale sounded like a wheeze, a whine really. His friend. His brow furrowed and it sent a dart of pain across his temple. He managed another shaky breath. James. God everything hurt. No, that was definitely James. Yes. “James?”

The flicker of a smile appeared at the corner of Sholto’s mouth. “There we are.” John swallowed and squinted, trying to keep the Major in focus. “How bad?”

“What?” John rasped. His voice still sounded strange in his ears.

“Hurt.” Sholto tilted John’s face to the side, eying the bruising and blood. “How bad is it?”

“Not… Not too bad,” John mumbled.

“Don’t lie to me.”

John tried to glare. He was definitely not trembling. He wasn’t. It was the pain. Not shock. It was cold. Why was it so flipping cold? He took a steadying breath. “Ribs are bad on the right.” He gave a small nod. “Yeah, ribs. Right arm may need stitches, I haven’t looked.”

Sholto hummed an affirmative. “Keep going.”

John wet his lips. “Might have a concussion.” He winced as gentle fingers prodded the side of his head. “And. I… I don’t know what’s wrong with my leg. It feels numb.” He hissed as Sholto lightly squeezed his knee. “Ok,” he grumbled. “Not numb then anymore.”

“Nothing else broken?”

John snorted. “Just some skin.”

Sholto smiled wanly. “Just some… Some skin? You’re supposed to be a doctor.”

“Then trust me,” John bit his lower lip. “I am a doctor.”

John grinned and Sholto forced a laugh. “SOP be damned, you bloody idiot, I’ll put you over a desk when we get back.”

John giggled.

“Definitely a concussion.”

The laughing subsided in a groan. “Stop. It hurts.”

The Major twisted, calling over his shoulder, “Roach?” John sighed and closed his eyes for a second. He was actually still alive. A Kevlar vest was pressed into his hands as he looked up again. “Put it on,” Sholto commanded.

“Y’sir.” John swallowed and nodded, wincing as he shifted the vest over his right shoulder. The grunt as he struggled to shift it over his head was louder than intended, but his hands were shaking, his whole body was shaking. It was definitely the cold. Sholto took over, slipping the damn thing over his head and under his left arm. John hissed as the Velcro was cinched tight, both supporting and pressing his damaged ribs.

Sholto’s hands were resting on his shoulders as he gave him a long, questioning look. “It’s not far.”

John nodded reflexively.

“Can you walk?”

He looked down at his legs and blinked. “Y-yeah. I…” He cleared his throat. “Yes.” Sholto searched his face for a moment and nodded, standing and offering him a hand up. John exhaled sharply as he made it upright. He was woozy but standing. Standing until he shifted weight onto his right leg. He stumbled on his feet; his legs like rubber, his right knee gave way. But he didn’t fall.

“Come on, Watson.” John hissed as his right arm was drawn over shoulders high enough to send a painful stretch through his ribs. Sholto’s arm wrapped around his waist, steadying him, supporting him. He waited for John to catch his breath before handing him a sidearm. “You can shoot left.”

He shifted the grip in his palm and flicked the safety off with his index finger. “Course.” Some of the shaking eased.

“You cover our left.”

John grit his teeth and gave a tight nod. “Behind you, Sir.”

“Slow and steady.”

His right knee didn’t seem to tolerate any weight, and keeping a grip around Sholto’s shoulders made his whole right side ache, but after a few stumbling steps, they started to find a rhythm that moved them forward. One step after another. The darkness of the building gave way to the pitch black of a clear, moonless night, and for all it was colder outside, it felt better.

“Murphy,” John mumbled.

“I know.”

“And Malcolm.”

“I know.”

“And Gleeson. Evans. Smith. Rukin. Palmer.” John felt the shudder rush down his spine. “Sir.”

“I know, John. Nearly there,” the Major murmured. “A hundred more meters and you’ll see the LZ.”

John couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. His whole body was aching and the idea of open air without buildings or trees was almost too much. “Might get awkward when the helo touches down.” He forced a smile. “You’ll need to duck, Sir.”

“Idiot,” he huffed out affectionately.

They were in the middle of nowhere. The building in a cluster, but not a town or village. It didn’t look familiar. “How’d you find it?” It. He couldn’t bring himself to really think about it in terms of ‘me.’

“Doesn’t matter,” Sholto’s voice was soft for a moment before he shouted into the darkness ahead. “Murray, get the kit and come look after this idiot.”

John squinted, trying to see anything in blur of shadowy movement. “It does matter.”

“That was Murray’s sniper rifle back there. Make sure you thank him.”

John blinked up at the Major. “Through the walls?”

“Mmn,” Sholto nodded and started to ease John’s arm from around his shoulders. “Called in a favor from the Yanks,” he added quietly. “If you had any idea how many bloody drones they have…”

“Moran,” John mumbled.

“What?”

John had felt some small relief as the Major propped him up against the side of a tree. Weight off his leg, weight off his ribs, the world was steadier and he could actually bring things into focus. Definitely concussed, definitely fractured ribs. “Moran,” John repeated and watched the Major’s eyes go dark. He considered himself rather well versed in Sholto’s expressions. The subtle quirks to his mouth, the shifts of muscle in his neck and tilts of his head, giving constant direction to people at his side. And his eyes, John had seen his eyes shift from contemplation to command, he’d watched them spark with fury before, he’d been able to make them darken with desire. But this look… John had never seen it before and it made his blood run cold. All trace of warmth was gone as Sholto’s eyes glinted cold and hard. And for the first time, James didn’t just look like a soldier, he looked like a killer. “Th-They,” John swallowed and met the alien expression with confusion. “They were after Moran.”

“And they thought you knew?”

“They were mistaken.”

“Yes,” Sholto drew himself up to his full height, the tense grip he’d had on John’s shoulders relaxing until his hands were merely resting in place. In a flash, the expression was gone. The Major was back to quiet, composed command. “They were quite mistaken.”

They both looked up, the sound of chopper blades cutting into the stillness. “I thought you were kidding about an airlift,” John muttered.

“I wasn’t going to risk you on a long drive back,” Sholto gave him a wry smile.

“I’m touched,” John shifted his back against the tree, trying to find a position that didn’t make his ribs scream in protest.

“You will be.”

He might have blushed. He might have cleared his throat. He might have felt the tiniest bit warmer for the freezing night. He might have, but he didn’t have time as shots snapped through the calm. He shoved off the tree. And John twisted, angling his body in an attempt to knock Sholto down, cover him, but his knee gave out again and he stumbled awkwardly into the space in front of the Major. That was all there was time for. That was his time up. His left side exploded in pain and the impact forced him back against Sholto’s chest thendropped him to the ground. Ice shot through his shoulder and lanced up his neck before melting into a hot ache that burned through the joint to grip his chest as gunfire exploded from all sides. And he was left for a moment, blinking up at the stars.

“Watson, you stupid sonuvabitch!”

The shooting stopped as quickly as it had started. And John screamed as the hands came down on his shoulder. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew it was necessary. Bleeding: Apply pressure. Bleeding: Apply pressure. Bleeding… Bleeding… He was bleeding. Again. The sticky damp soaking his shirt beneath the Kevlar.

“Murray! Get the med kit. NOW!”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“You listen to me, Soldier!” Sholto barked, blood welling between his fingers. “You are not allowed to die! Do you hear me?!”

“Yes…” John yelped as he was half rolled, his gasping breaths coming in shorter bursts. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest. “Yes, sir.” Oh, Jesus. Murray had dumped a pack of WoundSeal into the back of his shoulder and the joint went up in flames. His breath hitched and he couldn’t get air. Somehow he recognized the agonized wheeze as coming from himself.

“Breathe!” Sholto snapped. “John! Breathe!”

His head swam as he was shifted onto his back again. The whole of his left side was warm and sticky and somehow completely on fire. “Bill!” He tugged weakly at the collar of his vest, heaving a breath too shallow for the effort. “Tension… T-Pneumo,” he hissed.

“Fuck!” Murray muttered. “Get that vest off!”

“It’s holding his fucking shoulder together,” Sholto objected.

“He won’t need the shoulder if he’s dead,” Murray found a pair of shears in the kit and started cutting.

Please. Please. It hurt. Each breath stabbed into his shoulder and up his neck as a band tightened around chest. Everything hurt. Please, God. He felt so woozy.

“John!” Murray called. “Stay with me, Captain!” The vest was gone. The surrounding noise drowned in the whirring of chopper blades and tight, stridorus breaths. The added sting of a needle thoracostomy was a drop in the bucket of his agony, and while he gasped air into his lungs, the little he could see wavered dangerously gray and dark.

“Don’t you dare!” Sholto pressed hard on his shoulder. “Watson! I swear to God, if you don’t survive this, I will kill you myself!”

Please. He squirmed with the nausea, biting back a vomit, but only just. A cold sweat broke out across his body and he shivered in crisp night. Please, God.

“John!”

Please. He groaned. He could still hear them. He could. But he couldn’t muster the strength to keep his eyes open. Please, God. He wasn’t done. There was so much more. “James…” Please, God, let me live.

 

Cover Art by Archia:


	12. Curl Up and Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 12 TWs  
> \- Nightmares  
> \- Blood  
> \- Hallucinations  
> \- Gun violence  
> \- Graphic description of gore  
> \- Graphic description of injury  
> \- Self-hate  
> \- Self-blame  
> \- Torture
> 
> Do you remember that there was a fluffy chapter? Do you?... So to follow up that physically dark chapter, here's a psychologically dark one... Massive thank you to to my bun Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Apparently I made her cry with this one. Twice. I'm kinda proud. Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know. PS: yes... I know... We all hate that guy...
> 
> **"I know the same does not apply to you. So I guess that I'll curl up and die too. Clinging to the remnants of perfection like most do after they break it. Not knowing which direction's the correct one, do I discard or remake it? 'Cause if I don't know, then I don't know..."**  
>  ~ Curl Up and Die, Reliant K

_NO! John thrashed. They had him. They had him and they pinned him down. And he screamed. He swore and struggled and cursed and kicked and it didn’t seem to help. He was freezing, shivering and shaking, but it was sand and ash that floated down around him rather than snow. And more hands pressed him down into the ground. Into the sand. Into the ash and palettes. And his shoulder exploded with pain. They were going to take his arm. His whole arm. And fire and ice erupted from the bleeding hole beneath his clavicle. It shook his body from head to toe. And he was sweating and shivering. The duality of the desert trying to kill him as surely as the blood loss. And they kept pushing him down. Into the darkness. Into the pit of ice-cold flame. And he screamed. And screamed. And screamed into the black._

He was ten years old again, waking up alone in the hospital, in a bed too big for his small body, his arm tethered to his torso, his chest aching with every small breath he managed. Except his shoulder seemed to be on fire this time, and it was his dominant left hand in the snug sling. Except he felt the itch of stubble on his chin, the grit of sand clinging to his rough edges, the heat of sun in the tight skin stretched across his face. Except he felt weaker, wearier, more broken this time. He wasn’t ten years old. He wasn’t going to turn his head and find Harry walking into the room. He couldn’t call that kind case-worker. He shouldn’t cry. Soldiers don’t cry. But, God, did everything hurt.

“Captain Watson?”

He blinked to bring the slight form into focus. Petite, blonde, Scottish accent, fitted uniform top; nurse? He furrowed his brow.

“You’re awake again.”

Again?

“That’s… That’s good.”

He frowned slightly. “Where?” It felt like someone had run sandpaper through his throat.

The nurse busied herself with his vitals for a moment before facing him again. “Birmingham.”

“Bir-“ John’s voice cracked and he winced. “How long?”

She gave him a pitying look. “Here in Birmingham? Ten days. Off of sedation and out of the ICU? Two days.”

Ten days? In Birmingham? That meant that he’d been through… Jesus. He felt a wave of panic clench in his stomach and he swallowed heavily. “I… I don’t…”

She gave a tight-lipped smile, one that John instantly recognized as a medical buffer between real empathy and logical comprehension. “It’s normal to be fuzzy the first few times you wake up.”

“Few? How many times have we had this conversation?”

Her smile softened. “This is the first time you’ve made it this far.”

He blinked again, shifting to try to take in the room; the private room. His brow furrowed. “I don’t really… Remember…”

“Well, ye slept through the morning ward round again. But I’m under strict instructions to notify your supervising physician when you wake.”

“Supervising,” he muttered to himself. That wasn’t good. “Just tell me how bad it is.” He tried to sound firm, but he knew the waver in his voice was audible.

The nurse steeled herself and gave him a curt nod. “Obviously the doctors would have a better idea.” He hoped the expression he gave was one of encouragement rather than resignation, but she kept on. “I can tell you that you were shot through your left shoulder. You were floridly septic when you arrived here, and fairly roughed up.”

“I and V?” he asked weakly.

She nodded. “In ICU.”

“And… My arm? My hand?”

She seemed to consider her answer carefully. “We’ll have to see,” she said finally.

_They sat around the table, playing cards and enjoying the rare treat of a beer. They laughed at nothing in particular and relaxed into the normalcy of the night. And John felt light. He was weightless and pleased and maybe just a bit drunk. And isn’t that the way, Eddie said, standing and stretching his arms overhead. The movement pulling up on his tee shirt, exposing his waistline, his dark smooth skin, the gaping holes and lacerations and ileum and blood. And John screamed, shoving back from the table, away from the blood and pain and death of it._

_And Nate gurgled through an open wound in his neck when he asked what was wrong, tripping John over his battered knee. And what may have been Gleeson’s boot pressed him into the earth, grinding down on his shoulder. And John screamed at the pain of it, struggling in the piles of ash and sand. And they pinned him to the palettes, each taking a limb where they could, the blood seeping from his shoulder as it rained down from the open carotid of Dawson’s neck. The smell of Evan’s gun oil and Palmer’s gasoline. And Hughes lit the match in the charred remnants of his hand. And the pyre went up in flames. And John screamed, his body on fire. He screamed as he burned. He screamed and screamed. And when the smoke choked the last of the air from his lungs, he screamed out his last breath._

“Captain Watson.”

John stiffened in the bed. He’d come to know the different vocal tones of the nursing staff, but this one was different. It wasn’t the plaintive tone that preceded a dressing change. It wasn’t the scolding voice he expected when he didn’t do as he was told; doctors are, as they always have been, rubbish patients. And it wasn’t the social voice that heralded a vitals check and brief chat. This was a warning. He braced himself. “Hey, Polly.”

“I’ve a moment to do your vitals, and then there are some rather official looking gentlemen that have kindly suggested that speaking with you is of dire importance.”

He frowned. “Kindly, huh?”

“Oh, they are so very polite,” she smiled wryly.

“Debrief?”

“Formal report,” she nodded. He let out as deep a sigh as his ribs would allow. “You up for it? Medically speaking, we can tell them no. You’re only apyrexic one day now.”

He shook his head. “Best get on with it.”

She straightened up and gave him a stern look. “Do not push yourself yet.” He sniffed and tilted his chin up, pulling as much to attention as possible given his shoulder and ribs. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, “Stubborn. Take your tablets. Water is here,” she set the pills and a fresh water on his table. “And the call bell is here,” she clipped it to the sheet next to his right hip. He graced her with a real smile. “You’re off the monitors. But don’t over do it. They owe you, not the other way around.” She patted his knee and headed for the door.

So John waited. He hadn’t taken to having the TV on, the news was depressing, the shows were horrible, and the sounds that filtered through his dreams when he managed to fall into an uneasy sleep only nursed his nightmares. So his room remained peacefully quiet until there was a distinctively militant knock at the door.

“Excuse me, Captain Watson?”

John nodded, “Yes?” At least the man looked old enough to be dressed in a suit.

“My name is Terry Doyle.” He stepped into the room and crossed to the bedside with a brisk efficiency that immediately labeled him as military. “I’m with the RMP SIB.” He gave John a salute that was returned as well as John was able. “I,” he cleared his throat. “I am sorry that we have to meet this way.”

“You’re the lead on the debrief, then?” John offered.

Doyle nodded. “I don’t know if you’ve seen how these work.”

John made a non-committal sound. “I’m vaguely familiar. Haven’t been through one directly myself, but…” He winced when he tried to shrug. Maybe he should have taken the analgesia, but he really didn’t want to be fuzzy when he did this. One proper debrief and be done with it.

“If you’re happy to…” He paused, frowned, and glanced around the room. “Sir, are you well enough for this?”

John glared. “The longer you wait, the less trust worthy my memory will be. I’ve not had any opiates in the past six hours. Now would likely be the best time.”

Doyle gave him a tight smile. “Yes, of course. We’ll have someone acting as your advocate. He can be here at bedside. I’ll sit,” he waved a hand absently toward the foot of the bed, “with the other Major.” Then called out to the hallway, “Gentlemen?” He turned back to John. “I believe you know Majors McKenna and Sholto?”

John swallowed roughly. “Yes, yes of course I do.” He tried to sit up straighter in the bed, saluting both men as they entered.

McKenna dragged a chair noisily from the far corner of the room, scraping the legs against the floor until it reached a point near the foot of the bed and sat in it. “Watson,” he nodded coolly.

A flicker of a frown touched Doyle’s mouth, but he refrained from commenting. “Uh, Major Sholto, if you’d,” he gestured to the chair at the bedside. “I’m sure Captain Watson would…”

“Is it _really_ in his best interest for the commanding officer that caused his capture and subsequent injury to act as his advocate?” McKenna crossed his arms abruptly.

“Sir,” Doyle began placatingly.

“I trust him with my life,” John said evenly.

“And look how well that did you,” McKenna chided.

John felt his face color. “Sir,” Doyle interrupted sternly.

Sholto sat stiffly in the chair at John’s side, the lines around his eyes tight with restraint. “Would you like to take this seat, Ian? I know you’ve lost more than one senior medical officer under your command.”

John felt the sudden and unexpected urge to giggle as McKenna’s face discolored. Doyle cleared his throat sternly. “Gentlemen.”

It took an hour for John to talk through _that_ day up to the point of his capture, answering the questions as directly as possible. But from the moment he’d been struck unconscious, his memories became fuzzy and the process became labored. A fresh sweat broke out as he struggled to give words to what he could recall. And only belatedly noticed the tremors when he tried to take a sip of water. He winced as the dull thumps of pain started to seep into his awareness.

“Are you alright?” Doyle interrupted, a skeptical look on his face when John nodded. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

John swallowed over the sensation of his throat tightening. “I,” he wet his lips and nodded again. “Yeah, I want to finish this.”

“John, we can take a break if you need one.” John turned toward the hand that now rested on his shoulder, unnerved by the expression of pain on Sholto’s face.

“I have a question,” McKenna interrupted. “How’d the 5th manage to find you? I mean, you were found in the arse end of nowhere. Awfully quick turn around there.”

He felt Sholto’s hand tighten minutely against his shoulder, and John knew. He knew there was something deeper going on. McKenna was a prick, but this was… different. John narrowed his eyes. Were they going after James? “I can honestly say that I was indisposed at the time,” John growled. “And frankly, I can’t really bring myself to care how they found me.”

“No?” McKenna raised his eyebrows. “Not the least bit curious?”

“Curiosity kills,” John’s mouth twitched in a poor impression of a smile. “I’m rather glad to have my life right now.”

“Strange,” McKenna hummed and John felt himself bristle.

“Strange that I’d be happy to be alive?”

“Oh, not that.” McKenna shrugged as a cruel grin twisted his mouth. “I wonder why they bothered to capture you at all. You’re just a captain. Not really a common move. They seemed quite happy to just kill the people around you. Why not kill you and save some time?”

John felt his breath catch. “Breathe,” Sholto whispered, his hand still firm on John’s shoulder.

“They must have wanted something,” McKenna pushed.

“Sir,” Doyle interrupted.

“What did you tell them, Captain Watson?”

“Sir!” Doyle snapped.

“How much did they have to threaten you before you started spilling secrets?”

“That’s enough,” Sholto hissed fiercely.

McKenna rolled his eyes. “If you haven’t been asking these questions yourself, you’re dumber than I thought.” He pressed up to standing and nodded toward Sholto, “Major.”

“Major,” Sholto ground out.

“Terry, if we’re quite done, I’ve work elsewhere.”

Doyle shook his head slowly. “We’re done.”

“Good.” McKenna dragged the chair back to its original position against the far wall. “And Watson, we’ll have your discharge papers delivered later today. Good luck.”

A breath punched out of him. Discharge? It felt like he’d been hit in the gut and everything blurred. Discharge? After all that… What he gave… But…

“… sorry. Major, I hope you understand why I asked you to be in attendance.”

Sholto nodded. “I do. Thanks, Terry.”

“Captain Watson, are you… Are you alright?”

John actually felt like he might cry. “Discharge?”

Terry sighed. “Medical and honorable, Captain.” The expression on his face was both firm and apologetic. “You have done a great service for your country.”

“D-discharge?” John wheezed. “How…”

“You can leave, Terry,” Sholto said quietly. “Please close the door on your way out.”

Doyle nodded. “Your country is indebted to you, Captain Watson.” Then he was gone and John watched the empty space at the foot of his bed as his chest heaved.

“John,” Sholto began. “John, look at me.”

He turned. “Discharged?”

Sholto sighed. “What did you think was going to happen, John?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing seemed to come and he was forced to press his lips together, feeling rather lost and alone.

“There is a very long road ahead of you,” Sholto murmured, not without a tinge of sorrow. “It’s going to take months, not days for your shoulder to heal. You won’t be let near a patient until that’s well and normal. You’d have to get past the shrinks before they’d let you back into a combat zone, and I operate under no illusions when it comes to the fall out of these events. The army cannot wait on maybes.”

John pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. “And this is how you tell me?” He felt small. So very small and broken.

“No. That was not how I planned to tell you.”

John pressed his palm to his forehead. “I suppose it saves on travel. I’m already back in the UK; might as well just leave me here.”

“It’s not like that.”

“You know, at least they have the decency to put old, sick dogs down,” John grumbled bitterly.

“John,” Sholto’s voice was pinched. “You’re not being put down. I want you to know that the Army… that we… I. That I will never be able to fully repay you for what you’ve done.”

John sighed heavily through his nose. It might have been a snort if not for the tense sadness on his face. “I didn’t do it for payment.”

“Well, thankfully there’s something for it.” Sholto forced a smile. “And there can be a ceremony, when you’re up on your feet again. When you’re feeling up to it. But,” he handed John a wide flat box. “That’s yours. And I would be proud to pin it on you.”

John fumbled to pry the box open, then stared mutely at the crimson ribbon and bronze Maltese cross. He felt the shudder trace up his spine first before he found his voice again. “No,” he whispered in flat denial.

“I know what happened,” Sholto murmured.

“And this is what I get?” John clenched his jaw, his eyes flitting to the box. “I kill my own lieutenant, and I get a medal?”

“John.”

“No.” John’s voice rose in volume. “No! They came home in a fucking box and I get honored?! It’s my fault!”

“Stop it.”

“Everything… Everything’s always my fault!”

“That’s enough.”

“Always!”

“John!”

“I can’t even count the number of dead! How much blood is on my hands!”

“Goddammit, Watson!” Sholto snapped. John froze. Something in that tone of voice had him struggling for breath. He let out a small wheeze as he clutched at his ribs. “John.” Sholto dispensed with the chair and sat on the bed, gripping John’s good shoulder firmly. “John, breathe.”

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” John panted, his body folding in on itself. “They’re all dead because of me.”

“They’re not.”

“My fault,” he dropped his head. “It’s my fault. Hughes and Scotty. Jesus, Dawson. And Morgan and Landers.” John started gasping, each name punching a small breath out of his already screaming lungs.

“John.”

“Palmer, Rukin, Gleeson.” He pressed his eyes shut, his face pulling tight into a tight flinch. “Evans. Smith.”

“John, stop.”

“Malcolm. God. I was trying to… I was… And Eddie… They… He… I couldn’t… And it was my fault. And,” his next attempt at a breath was a sob. “Murphy. I couldn’t! I couldn’t stop…”

“John, breathe,” Sholto said firmly. He took John’s face between his palms, tilting him more upright. “John, look at me.”

“My fault. I killed Nate!” John tried to bite back the urge to vomit and held his breath.

“Look at me!” Sholto gave him a light shake. “For the love of God, John Watson, breathe!” John blinked rapidly, catching air with small hiccups as he tried to focus on the man in front of him. “Breathe,” Sholto repeated in a gentler voice. “Please, John. Just breathe, yeah?” One of Sholto’s hands dropped from John’s cheek to flatten against his sternum. “Breathe, John. In and out.”

It shuddered through his body, broken heaves and gulps. “It hurts.”

“Breathe,” he murmured, ducking to rest his forehead against John’s. “In… Out.” He winced as he listened to unnatural struggle. “Just breathe.”

John’s hand managed to catch Sholto’s shirtfront and his fingers fisted in the fabric. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I… It hurts.”

“I know, but breathe. Keep breathing.” He cupped the nape of John’s neck. “I don’t understand how you carry it all. You don’t have to carry it; you shouldn’t. John, please. That’s twice. Twice you saved my life. Twice you risked a bullet to keep me whole. I can never, never repay that.” He squeezed gently, keeping John’s attention however he could. “These are mine, John. My failures. You don’t get to keep them.”

“No,” John tried to shake his head, but Sholto held fast.

“My orders. My decisions. My failures. My fault.” He pulled back and gave John a long steady look. “If I could take away the pain, I would. I would swap places with you in a heartbeat. But these are my burdens.”

John tilted his head back, eyes fixing on a spot high over Sholto’s shoulder, anything to keep from meeting his stare. “I gave…“ He sniffed loudly, his face twitching. “I don’t have… I’ve nothing left.”

“You do,” he said firmly.

“I can’t… They’ve kicked me out. That was job, my life,” John insisted. “Look at me, I’m broken! I’m not in the army. I can’t do surgery. I’ve no home. I’ve no…”

“John.”

“And I don’t even get…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, doing his best to hide the tears welling in his eyes. “When do you go back?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“Tuesday.”

John took a shaky breath and nodded. “Tuesday.”

“John, please look at me.”

It took a moment for him to steel himself before looking up. “Yes, Sir.”

“John.”

He swallowed. “James.” A full body tremor shook him and he winced.

“How bad?”

“How… What?”

“What hurts, John?”

John felt his face crumble. “Everything.”

“What are these?” He reached for the tablets on the table. “John, when were you supposed to take these? They’ve been here since we started.”

He shook his head miserably. “I just wanted to be clear…”

“John, you need to take these.”

His hands were shaking too much to even accept the tablets at first. “Just do it once and be done…”

“John.” Sholto held out the pills. “Right now.”

“They make me groggy,” John whispered, carefully picking up the pair of them. “I… I’ll fall asleep.”

“Now, John.”

With a look of desperation, John swallowed the tablets and accepted the water for a small sip. “I don’t…”

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Sholto said evenly. “Your doctors are going to kill you for being such an idiot.”

John only resisted the gentle push against his shoulder for a moment before leaning back against the elevated pillows. “I am a doctor,” he muttered indignantly.

“And a damn good one,” Sholto murmured, shifting back into the chair.

“I would do it again…”

“What would you do again?”

“I’d take the bullet. James, I would…”

“I know you would. Get some rest, John.”

_He was ten. He was ten years old and sitting at the table doing his maths. And Harry wasn’t home yet, but the TV flickered and empty beer cans sat on the end table and John knew he wasn’t alone. And his name was called, but it wasn’t dad. It wasn’t. And it demanded of him. And drew him out of his chair. And it was all John could do to keep from fleeing upstairs to his bedroom._

_It’ll be alright. John, it’ll be alright. And James was there, standing behind him, both hands on John’s slight shoulders. And God, wasn’t James tall. So John turned to face it, face it head on, with James at his back. And it wasn’t dad. It never was. And McKenna chucked an empty can aside and drew his sidearm. And John screamed. He turned and threw himself at James, knocking him down, his young body too small to cover the taller man. And John screamed as his shoulder lit up with pain. And he rolled and thrashed against McKenna’s boot as it held him to the ground. And panicked at the sight of the barrel pointing not at himself but at James. And McKenna hissed as he pulled the trigger. Moran…_

John started awake.

“I hear you’re giving our physiotherapists a hard time. I knew you were a stubborn bastard, but this is too much.”

John blinked rapidly. Maybe he was hallucinating again.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest in a familiarly obstinate posture. When his mouth dipped into the beginnings of a frown she raised a single brow. “Stupid. Shrimpy. Stubborn. Arse.”

“Murph?”

A faint smile twisted the corner of her lips as she pushed off the doorjamb and crossed to the bedside chair. “John,” she relaxed into the chair and gave him a steady look. “Please tell me you’re not undoing all my hard work for the sake of pouting like a child.”

He swallowed. “You did the…”

“Yup.”

“Never really thought to ask…”

“Not many do.”

“It looks pretty clean.”

“I can do better,” she snorted. “But in my defense, there was a bone deep infection, WoundSeal, a ten minute patch job, and your weak ass left lung to work around, so overall…”

“Solid two-two honors.”

“You get to keep life and limb, so I’m marking it down in the victory column.”

“Life and limb,” he echoed. “How lucky.”

“Nerves are intact, John. Your hand should be perfectly functional.”

It was a truth he’d been both longing to hear and dreading. He changed the subject. “Trauma?”

“Maybe I was inspired,” she said flatly.

His laugh sounded hollow even in his own ears. “So this is special treatment?”

Murph interlaced her fingers and leaned forward, her elbows braced on her knees. “I don’t spend much time with my patients when they’re conscious. Doesn’t seem to be a good distribution of my time. The bosses like me scrubbed. But you need a swift kick up the arse, so consider this debt repayment.” She studied his face, searching for something that, in its absence, clearly made her cross. “I’m going to Belfast tomorrow.”

“Belfast?” he echoed dumbly. What was in Belfast?

“Family funeral.” Her mouth set into a firm line.

Oh. He pressed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep enough breath to make his chest cramp. It took him a moment before he could meet her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Are you?” she asked bluntly. “Because frankly, John, I don’t think you are.”

He felt like he’d been slapped. “Murph, you… You have no idea how sorry…” his voice cracked, so he stopped talking. His left hand started to tremble enough that he set his right on top of it.

She didn’t miss it. She didn’t miss one fraction of the entire scene. She had always been a bigger picture person. “You know he called me. He was so bloody excited to be in the 5th. That you were going to be his CO. That Sholto was in charge.”

“Murph-”

“No.” She shook her head once. “You will sit there and hear this, John. Because you need to hear this. He was excited. And we were relieved. I don’t need the official report. I know enough to be able to read between the lines on this. We don’t… We don’t blame you. Or Major Sholto. War does terrible things.” She dropped her head to stare at her hands. “I see them. The ones that you guys at Bastion were able to get back to us here in Birmingham. And I fix whatever’s left. And there are days when I hate my job, I hate what I cannot do, I hate the world and everyone in it. And then I wonder what it must be like for the front line and I put on my big girl panties and I deal with it.” She lifted her eyes and absolutely pierced him with a look. “But if you waste this gift. This second chance. This opportunity to do more with life, then you are spitting on the graves of every person who went before you. And I swear to God, that is not something I can tolerate.”

He clenched his jaw against the tightness in his throat. He wouldn’t cry. He never cried. And he certainly wouldn’t cry for himself.

“Do not dishonor Nate’s memory by wasting this,” she hissed. “Am I clear?”

He nodded once, a sharp, clear affirmative.

“I’ll be back in three days. You’ll be out of that bed and walking around. You’ll be taking the damn medication I’ve prescribed. You’ll be doing your stupid exercises with the physios. You’ll be eating your goddammed meals. And for the love of all that is holy, you are going start seeing your visitors.”

John snorted as his brows furrowed. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“John,” her palm settled gently atop his right hand and he had to consciously relax the fist he’d made. “Things go wrong. You have to let the bad ones go.” She squeezed his hand and he had to crack a small smile at the echoed words. “You’re not dead, John. But if you don’t stop acting that way, I’ll smother you with a pillow, and you know what that’ll do to my numbers.”

He let out a wet laugh. “Can’t have that. Can’t have me ruining your reputation like that.”

“No. We can’t have that.”


	13. You Might Die Trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 13 TWs  
> \- Nightmares  
> \- Panic attacks  
> \- Alcoholism  
> \- Physical violence  
> \- Graphic descriptions of war  
> \- Allusions to child abuse  
> \- Allusions to eating disorder  
> \- Medical Jargon  
> \- Seizures  
> \- Coma  
> \- Hospitals and end of life issues  
> \- Death  
> \- Abandonment  
> \- Abuse  
> \- Self-hate
> 
> I know that's a lot of TWs, I want to make sure I don't leave any big ones out... This chapter ended up taking a lot longer to get on paper than I expected and looking back it's 10,000 words. It is not pretty. Massive thank you to to my bun Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). I think I need one more chapter after this. Maybe... Maybe two. Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know. PS: Did John ever have anyone good in his life?
> 
> **"If you close your eyes, 'cause the house is on fire, and think you couldn't move until the fire dies. The things you never did, oh 'cause you might die trying, 'cause you might die trying. You'd be as good as dead, 'cause you might die trying..."**  
>  ~ You Might Die Trying, The Dave Matthews Band

John glared at the small duffel bag. Between the sling and the sodding cane, it was going to be a negotiation to carry it, and he certainly wasn’t going to let anyone else carry the bloody thing. He grumbled irritably at it as his fingers twitched in the sling. He was already dreading the train, the stations, the people, the jostling, the duration… He sighed. He just wanted to get… Home. Back to London. He’d figure out what Harry was up to when he was back in town. Sort out why his mum had stopped trying to ring him since he’d gotten back. He could… He’d find a place to live. He’d… find a job?

“Cap-”

John’s head shot up at the intrusion, the rebuke dying on his tongue as the nurse caught herself.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Hi Polly. Nearly done. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.” John glanced around the room once more. He was sure he’d collected anything worth taking.

“Oh, there’s no rush, John,” Polly said kindly. “Though, if you need a hand, let me know. It’s just that you’ve got a visitor?”

He raised a brow. “Now? I wasn’t expecting…” He trailed off as a familiar face appeared around the doorframe. “Clara?”

A bright smile lit up the woman’s face as she sidestepped Polly and nearly bounced into the room. “John!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a firm hug.

A bit stunned, John tried to return the embrace with one arm before pulling away. “What are you doing here? I’m actually leaving today. I was going to…”

“To take the train back to London on your own,” she raised a brow pointedly.

“I…” Why did he feel like he was being scolded? “I’ve been trying to get Harry on the phone, but it’s all been voicemail.”

Clara’s smile wavered. “Yeah, I finally got the one you left at the flat. I would have been here sooner, John.”

He forced a smile. “To watch me sulk like five-year-old brat? Ta, no.”

“Well, I’ve a full tank and road snacks in the car.” She was almost contagious with her enthusiasm. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You’ve nothing to make up, Clara,” he murmured. “I know you were the one sending me all those crisps and freddos.”

“It’s the absolute least I can do for my favorite brother-in-law.” She stooped and scooped up the duffle, twisting easily to fling it up on her shoulder.

“I’m your only brother-in-law.”

She wove her arm around his free elbow. “Of course you are. Now, come on, Mr. Grumpy Pants. We’ve catching up to do, and a two hour drive in which to do it.”

John gave a long-suffering sigh, but couldn’t keep the light smile from softening his face. “The things I put up with.”

She paused just outside the door. “Are you free to leave? I’m not going to be chased down by the MPs for springing you, am I?”

John smiled and shook his head. “Papers are all signed.”

“Excellent.” She resumed their walk towards the lifts. “You still like those salt and vinegar Pringles?”

His face quirked. “That is honestly the strangest question I’ve had in a long time.”

“That’s not a no?” The elevator pinged and they stepped inside.

“Ah. No, I think I still like them. Haven’t had them in ages.” He watched as her lips pressed into a tight expression.

“Good. I have some in the car.”

“Good?”

“You look like shit, John.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. When Clara deadpanned an insult it was amusing. “Ta.”

“I’m serious.” She prodded his side as gently as possible as they stepped out onto the ground floor. “You’re wasting away. How can I set you up on dinner-dates if you’re not eating? Hm?”

He chuckled. “You worry about the strangest things, Clara.”

“Step one, back to London. Step two, bachelor pad. Step three, fatten you up. Step four…” She shot him a sideways glance with a smirk as they neared the car.

“I swear to you, Clara, if you say ‘profit,’ I’m running for the train station.

“Without your cane?” She twirled the thing in right hand. “Feel free to use me as a crutch, John, but not on the trains.” She grinned at his sour expression and popped the boot, setting both the cane and his duffle on the floor.

“What’s that?” He bobbed his head toward the cardboard box. Clearly post, but…

“Oh,” Clara snapped the boot shut and walked him toward the passenger door. “It showed up for you at your mum’s house about five days ago. I didn’t want to leave it with Harry; she’d have it opened before you were back.”

John shifted in the seat, trying to find a comfortable sitting position that didn’t aggravate his shoulder or his leg. Two hours was going to be a long time to sit. “Wait,” he glanced at Clara as she started the car. “Why would you have to leave it with Harry? Wouldn’t my mum have just…”

Clara’s face went completely flat as she pretended to be occupied with navigating the car out of the car park. After a few moments of silence, she tossed a small tub of Pringles at John, a pleasant smile back on her face. “Eat up; I’ve the freddos in the back seat.”

_John was used to discomfort. Boot camp only created a weak approximation of the discomfort waiting upon deployment, but it seemed to be a specialty of the Army—perfecting tolerance of discomfort. He was never overly hungry, but the food itself was designed for survival and calories, not flavor. He was never overly thirsty, but the bottled water carried a taste of plastic and iodine that he could never quite clear from his palate. He was rarely dirty, but he seemed to find grit in places that previously seemed impervious to sand. He was never without clothing, never without shelter, never without work. And yet, there was a constant undercurrent of complete discomfiture. Never enough to distract from staying alive, but sufficient to taint even the pleasant moments._

_The days they didn’t have to march, but rather, they had the convoys should have been a relief. But no one could be totally relaxed on the drives. The threat of IEDs, the intermittent gunfire, the noise, the jostling and jolting from the uneven roads. No… never relaxing. And the heat in the vehicles. Under the armor and fatigues, baking in the desert sun, the Humvees just seemed like portable ovens for hardening the weaker recruits. And John sat shotgun, ever vigilant, ever watchful, always worried as Eddie drove._

_“Shit!” Malcolm swore as he swerved around a massive pothole in the unpaved, packed road._

_“Steady,” John braced himself as the Humvee recovered._

_They were level for less than three seconds before they hit the hidden spikes and the front tire blew loudly. The entire vehicle rocked and John cussed, bracing himself against the dash as gunfire erupted from the surrounding hills._

“No!” John started, his hand braced on the dash as surprisingly temperate forest and cityscape flashed past the window.

The scenery slowed to a crawl and finally a stop. “John?” Clara set a small hand against his shoulder. “Sorry. That jackass came outta nowhere. I didn’t mean to swerve so… So sharply.”

He took a steadying breath in and out. Another. The fresh sweat was cooling at the small of his back, on his brow, the nape of his neck. The static was rising though.

“John.” Clara unbuckled her seatbelt and his in rapid succession. “Breathe, John.”

He tried. He tried again. His stomach churned. He was fine. He was fine. He was safe. He was nearly to London. There were no guns. No mines. No snipers in the trees. His door was opened and Clara dragged his legs over the frame to plant on the asphalt, letting the cool fresh air wash across him.

“Breathe, John,” she repeated, stroking a hand up and down his back. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

He tried. He clenched and unclenched his hands. He pressed his head down between his knees. He listened to Clara’s gentle voice. He was fine. He was alright. He opened his mouth to suggest as much, but vomited instead. Clara didn’t flinch away, she didn’t even seem surprised. She shushed him and kept rubbing his back and kept reminding him to breathe. And when it seemed like he remembered how to breathe again, when the twisting in his stomach subsided, when the world stopped tilting and he could look at the horizon and see High Wycombe instead of the Helmand, he pushed himself upright and blotted at his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Sorry,” he croaked.

Clara watched him. She didn’t frown, but her expression was one of careful consideration, sympathy, and knowing. “Don’t be,” she patted his knee and stood, propping her hip against the car. “But I’m not feeding you any more freddos for the rest of the drive.” John snorted. All this inappropriate affect. What was the term again? Emotionally labile. Then again, junk food after nothing but rations and canteen food and hospital food for months was obviously a terrible idea. God bless Clara. She disappeared to rummage under the clutter of art supplies in the back seat, only to reemerge with a bottle of water. She opened it and handed it over. “Bad dream?”

He flinched and tried to cover it with a swig of water. “Something like that.”

Clara nodded. “You ok for another hour? Or should we go find a place to camp out?”

“I’ll be ok.”

“If you want to stop, just let me know.”

He nodded.

“You were so accurate with that last one, missing me and your shoes and the car,” she paused as he squinted up at her. She had a wry smile on her face. “Small sips, yeah? I don’t want to question your consistency.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

The remainder of the drive was quiet. Clara slowed her driving, taking a more cautious approach than her normal style. John resolutely stayed awake, refusing to even drift to a doze. When they reached the flat, both of them breathed a small sigh of relief. Clara retrieved the duffle and box from the boot of the car, handing John his cane and refusing to let him take anything else. “Come on up,” she bobbed her head toward the lift. Clara juggled the box to open the door to the flat and John followed her inside, glancing around the home Harry and Clara had built since he’d been gone.

“You’ve a lovely home,” he said quietly.

“One that you’ll make yours until you find something you like,” Clara said with finality, gesturing him to follow. She pushed open a door and set the box and duffle on the double bed. “Spare room is now officially yours, John.”

“Thank you.”

“Come on, I’ll give you the five cent tour and get you something to eat.”

He followed her out of the room as she led him around. “This making me eat thing… It’s not really a thing, is it?”

“CLARA!”

John jumped. Clara sighed and finished the walk into the sitting room. “Harry, we’ve a small enough flat; you don’t need to yell.”

“Where the bloody fuck did you put my keys?” Harry snapped, rummaging through the papers on the kitchen table.

Clara raised a brow. “You must have had them when you came home for lunch. As I’ve just come in, I clearly didn’t put them anywhere.”

“I set them right there, Clara!” Harry snapped, finally looking up.

John couldn’t help the concerned expression on his face. “Harry,” he nodded once. She looked… significantly older than he remembered. And somewhat… darker?

“Oh, just bloody perfect! Fucking great idea, Clara! I suppose you want me to stay here and mind him too.” Harry huffed and stomped toward the small cupboard with the laundry. She started tossing clothes from the hamper into the middle of the hallway.

“Harry,” Clara said gently. “John is perfectly capable of minding himself.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to work without my god dammed keys?” Harry barked.

Clara rolled her eyes and retrieved the key ring from the front hall table. “Harry,” she held them out in her hand.

Harry straightened and glared at the keys, glared at Clara, glared at John. Finally, she snatched them from Clara’s palm and growled. “I will be late.”

“I know,” Clara murmured.

“And you,” she pointed at John. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The door slammed in her wake.

John’s brow knit in a concerned expression as he watched the door. Finally releasing a tight breath, he turned his head to find Clara. “Is she…?”

Clara sighed and tried to put a smile back on her face. “She’s under a lot of stress right now.”

“But…” John glanced back at the door. “Was she… drunk?”

Clara’s smile flickered and she headed back into the kitchen. “Not drunk, no. Not yet.”

John followed her. “Not yet?”

Clara was preoccupied with the contents of the fridge. “Can I make you something? A sandwich? Do you think that’d sit ok in your stomach?”

“Clara?”

“We have some cream crackers if that sounds too heavy. Or some juice.” She started pulling things out of the fridge and setting them on the counter.

“Clara,” John whispered, catching her before she could start opening cupboards.

She huffed and met his gaze evenly. “What?”

Perfectly eyelevel. Same age. Same ache over what they both knew was a very slow form of self-destruction. They watched each other for a long moment. John sighed, squeezed Clara’s shoulder, and held out his arm. They embraced. Now a unified front. They could deal with this. “Alright,” John murmured.

_Watsons had tempers. Volatile, explosive, violent tempers that met like tempests on home soil. More than once, it’d come to blows. Sometimes they ended with tears. More often than not, things were broken, shattered, flung against hard surfaces with intent. And, as far as John could remember, not one of the events had been completely void of alcohol. And the worst one… The worst one had all of the above._

_“Dad…” The word hissed out of him in disbelief, in horror._

_Harry set down her glass of wine and stood. “And I’m leaving.”_

_“Harriet, please. He’s just got here.”_

_John looked at his mother with incredulity as he stood next to Harry. “What is he doing here, mum?”_

_The half smile, the dangerous glint, the half uncoordinated shift of weight that belied the consumption already underway. “Look at you, Johnny. All grown up.”_

_John placed himself firmly between Harry and their father. “Get out.”_

_“I invited him,” his mother objected._

_“And I’m uninviting him,” John growled. “Now leave.”_

_“Son,” he took a step forward, hand extended in greeting. “Your mum didn’t raise you to be rude, now.”_

_Harry retreated a step. “But she did raise us,” she snarled._

_His eyes flashed dangerously at Harry. “And look at what not having a father did for you.”_

_John sucked in a breath. No. No, this was not going to happen. Harry was perfect exactly how she was. She was doing well. She was happier than he’d seen her. “Served her far better than having you around ever would,” John said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest._

_“John!” his mother chided._

_There was only about a foot between them now. John wasn’t going to be moved. “Heard about your little fiancée,” he hummed. “Shame. She was a looker.”_

_John saw red. He clenched his jaw as, for the first time in his life, his vision completely colored with rage. How… How DARE he! Harry’s palms wrapped around his bicep. “Let’s go, John,” she murmured._

_And he heard it. It was probably the only thing that would have broken through is anger. Harry was scared. If he was being honest with himself, he was terrified. But the fury was eclipsing the memory of being small, of being tossed against walls, of being struck by a grown man. John sneered. “Yes, let’s. We’re done here.” And John steeled himself, turned his back on his father, wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder, and headed for the door. He helped Harry into her coat and opened the front door, a gentle hand at the small of her back guiding her outside._

_“Mum,” John addressed the room as he slipped into his jacket. “Work is quite busy. I don’t know when we’ll be able to do this again.” The expression on his mum’s face was devastating, but John was beyond the emotional manipulation. “I hope you understand.”_

_“John, please.”_

_He shook his head slowly. “We never asked you to choose. Never. But now you’re going to have to.”_

_“You’d have your mum pick between you and your father?”_

_John’s hands balled into fists as he glared. “Of all the things I might call you, you are not my father.”_

_“John!” his mother pushed back from the table, but a wave from the man kept her in the chair._

_“No, it’s alright,” he crossed the room, drawing up just shy of John and flashing a dark smile. “The boy is just having a tantrum.” John bristled, his entire body going stiff. “Hard to think he’d take the side of a queer over his own mum.”_

_“Hard to think I’d take the side of an alcoholic abuser over my own sister,” John snarled._

_Then his back collided with the wall. Firm hands gripped his shoulders and he was slammed into the wall again. It was startling. It was sore. And it was fuel to a burning hatred already fighting to break free. He felt the punch strike him high on his left cheek, and that was the last time this man would ever touch him. John used the wall at his back as a brace and thrust the heel of his hand forward, driving it into the sternum. And as the breath whooshed out, as the knees buckled, and he started slipping to the floor, John threw a solid left hook into the man’s jaw._

_John felt his own chest heaving. The steady throb of pain from his cheek was nothing in comparison to the shattering of anything that ever could or would feel like home. “I am not a child,” he barked. “Try that again, and I will break your arms!” He took a steadying breath and squatted, his thumb digging into the pressure point where the neck met the shoulder, and glared, waiting for full attention. He pitched his voice low enough that only the prone form on the floor could hear him. “And if you ever, ever touch my sister or my mother, I will personally murder you in your sleep and no one will find the body.”_

_He let go, stood, straightened his jacket and nodded to his mother. “It’s him or us, mum.” Then he turned and walked out of the house for what he was sure would be the last time. By the time the cab was halfway home, John was trembling from head to toe. And he couldn’t be sure if it was anger or pain or the ebbing of adrenaline in his body, but he was certain that he was dead tired now._

_Harry followed him up to his flat, made a bee-line for the kitchen and came back with a bag of frozen peas. “For your face or knuckles, your call.”_

_John gave her a half smile and held it carefully against the side of his face, dropping heavily onto his couch. “My knuckles? Really?”_

_“You surgeons are mental about your hands. I didn’t want to assume…” she grinned at him._

_He laughed. “Yeah. We are. What was I thinking?” He flexed his hand a few times. It felt fine. He sighed and glanced up at Harry. “Alright?”_

_She nodded. “Think so.”_

_“I’m sorry,” he murmured._

_“What for?”_

_“I…” he winced against the ice. “I’ve never lost my temper like that before.”_

_Harry smiled kindly. “I have.” She sat on the couch next to him and patted his knee. “He deserved it. He threw the first punch. And he didn’t leave you much choice. Self-defense or not, I will never be sorry that you slugged that arsehole.”_

_He sighed. “It’s just… I’m not… I’m not like that.”_

_“I know you’re not.”_

_He glanced at the clock and groaned. “I’ve got to be in early tomorrow. Spare room is free if you want to kip here tonight.”_

_“Think I might,” she stretched. “You’ve got nice pillows on that bed.”_

_He stood. “Lock up when you leave in the morning?”_

_“You bet.” He was halfway out of the room when she called after him. “John?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“I promise.” She raised a brow. “Yeah?”_

_He nodded. “Yeah.”_

For Watsons, dark moods were an art form. While Harry’d only seen John lose control once, John was privy to the wide range of Harry’s expressions and tempers. And when she stomped into the flat late in the evening, he already had an idea for which one he was in store. For starters, she was, yet again, drunk. John set down the paperback he’d rummaged from the shelf and stood as she came into the sitting room. She gave him one look then turned toward the kitchen area, emerging again with a full glass of wine. He didn’t comment, but his expression was disapproving.

She dropped into one of the armchairs and watched him as she swirled the wine in the glass. “So, John.”

“Harry.” He eased himself back down into the couch.

“I take it Clara has set you up in the guest room for the moment?” she sipped the wine almost distastefully.

John gave a nod. “Thank you. I appreciate…”

She waved him off. “Whatever. Look. Room aside, you’re on your own. I’m working overtime to make payments on this flat and London isn’t exactly cheap.”

John frowned. “Yeah, alright. I’ll… I’ll start looking for a place of my own tomorrow.”

“Mmn,” she nodded, taking a rather too large sip of the wine. “Nice of you to come home, though.”

John bit his tongue at the malice in that comment.

“Been what? Four years?” Harry had another sip. “Couldn’t even make it home for my wedding, but here you are.”

He sighed. “I was on active duty, Harry. They don’t just let you home for weddings.”

“Is that how it works?” she cocked a brow at him. “I had no idea.”

“Harry,” he sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

She gave him a grim smile, but didn’t answer.

“It would have been nice if you’d returned my calls,” he said quietly. “I get it that Birmingham isn’t next door, but…” He failed to suppress the shudder that worked its way up his spine. “I wasn’t well, Harry.”

“I can tell,” she frowned at him. “But I can only manage one family member in the hospital at any given time. Two is too many. As you can probably tell.” She took a large swig of the wine and pulled a face. “I’m not the nurturer in our family.”

John blinked. “What?” he breathed.

Harry’s brow went up again, the angry smile back on her face. “That’s right. She probably didn’t tell you, did she? No. Of course not.” Harry’s face twisted as she pitched her voice. “I don’t want to worry him, Harry. He has so much on his plate, Harry. He’ll only want to come home more, Harry. Have you talked to Johnny, Harry? How’s Johnny?”

John stared, his stomach dropping slowly into his feet. “What?” he repeated numbly.

Harry tipped back the last of her glass and set it on the side table. “She asked me not to tell you, alright.”

John swallowed. “What’s wrong with mum?”

“Cancer,” she answered bluntly. “Something brain something. They’re looking after her in Uni. Sorry, bit late for visiting hours.”

“Wh… What?” there was a tight band around his chest, squeezing, squeezing the breath slowly out of him. “How long?”

“How long has she had it? Or how long has she got?”

“H-harry,” his voice cracked.

“In hospital for three months. Probably doesn’t have much time left. I don’t quite understand the details. You asshole doctors speak in jargon. So maybe you should go translate.”

The air seemed to escape his throat in a whine. “God, Harry. Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When would I have done that, John?” She moved evenly across the room to refill her wine and remained standing, propping her hip against the chair she’d vacated. “When, John? When you were on active duty and couldn’t come home? Or when you were dying in a bed in Birmingham? Or when you’d found your feet? Tell me when is the best time to discuss this with you.”

“Shit.” John dropped his head into his right hand. “Why Uni? Why not Bart’s?”

“Bart’s is expensive,” Harry grumbled, starting in on her new glass.

John looked up, confusion on his face. “What about the money I’ve been sending? It’s over half of my income. There must be…”

“Dying in this country is expensive, John.”

His face pinched. “You should have told me.”

“Should have a lot of things, John.” She finished the glass quickly. “I’ve to be out early for work. Maybe you should go see her tomorrow. Hold her hand. She asks about nothing but you anyway.”

He opened his mouth to say something. Say anything. But… Jesus. Three months. She should have told him! “H-Harry,” he pleaded.

“Clara would have shown you around. Make yourself at home. I’ll probably see you tomorrow evening.” And she left the room.

John slumped forward, bracing his elbow on his knee and his head in his hand. What a fucking mess. He’d been excited to come home…

_“Get down!” he screamed. “Down!” His hands gestured wildly as the shooting started. He dove forward, ducking behind a wall._

_“Captain!” Roach landed beside him. “The house is full of civilians. We’ll hit them if we return fire.”_

_John heaved a desperate breath. “We’ve gotta get them out.” He twisted, trying to find the friendlies in the onslaught. Where was Bill? He should be able to pick the shooters off. The door opened. And Clara was thrown out, stumbling in the uneven path. Harry staggered behind her, colliding with her, pulling her down to her knees. “Stay down!” John shouted. “Harry, stay down!”_

_“Sir?” Roach insisted._

_“John,” Sholto whispered._

_John watched in horror as his mum was next. Out into the open. Right in the line of fire. Human shields between his squad and God knew what. He was stuck. He was frozen. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t decide._

_“Captain!” Roach snapped._

_“Mum…” he whispered._

_“BOMB! She’s wearing a vest!”_

_John screamed. He screamed for them to stop. But nothing could stop it now. His mother exploded, the flame and smoke consuming Harry and Clara and coming straight for him. It shifted and twisted and flattened him onto his back as he felt the fire consume him._

John shifted in the chair again. What was it about the hospital chairs that were so horribly uncomfortable? No one wanted to be there anyway. At least they could make it less miserable. He sighed and shifted again, hoping his mum would wake again soon. The radiotherapy was really taking it out of her. Always tired. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t had anything resembling proper sleep in the four days he’d been back in London.

He’d yet to see Harry again, she was coming in later than he could stay awake, and she was gone before he was up. He wanted to talk to her. He needed to. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. GBM. Fucking hell. It was a death sentence. He knew enough to know the stats. Essentially inoperable, though they’d done a debulking while he was in Birmingham. Radiotherapy to slow it down. Eventual confusion, personality change, raised intracranial pressure, midline shift, seizures, lethargy, coma, death… He was already seeing more than enough confusion. And the latest scans weren’t terribly reassuring.

He’d had enough. John had had enough. Enough of hospitals for a lifetime. Enough loss. Enough pain. Just… enough.

“Johnny?”

He sat forward and took her hand. “Hiya, mum.”

“John, where are we?”

“In the University Hospital,” he said carefully. “We’ve been here for a while.”

“Oh.”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. How many times had he had this same conversation in the past few days?

“Are you unwell?”

He choked back a wet laugh. “I’ve been better, mum.”

“Look at you,” she said softly. “All grown up. A doctor. And you look just like your father.”

John tried to smile and failed.

“My baby,” she whispered. “You’re so grown up.”

“Mum…” Her eyes went heavy and he patted her hand. “Get some rest, mum.”

He watched as she fell asleep. He watched the monitors when she was finally there. And he watched the corridor and room and nurses and porters and doctors through the open door. He sighed. God, he needed sleep. He felt her hand twitch around his and he glanced up. “Mum?”

It wasn’t just her hand. It was her wrist. Her arm. Her face. Her leg. “Fuck!” He lunged for the call bell, pushing back from the bed as the nurse came in. “She’s seizing!” And his mind went blank. He knew this. He knew… Why couldn’t he remember what to do?

The arrest team rushed in and he was shuffled out of the way, stumbling back against the wall to keep from falling over. And he was holding his breath. He wasn’t breathing. “Mr. Watson,” the small voice filtered into his consciousness. “Breathe, Mr. Watson.”

He blinked at the nurse. He was out in the hallway, sitting on a bench, a glass of cool water pressed into his hand. He sucked in a tight breath. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry. I’ll… I’ll be fine.”

She nodded. “Is there anyone I can call to be with you right now?”

He dug into his pocket and fished out the small, top-up mobile he’d been using. “No… I can… I’ll…” She nodded again and left him in peace. John rang Harry’s mobile. He rang it twice before leaving a shaky message. Then he rang the flat… twice for good measure and left a message there. He didn’t have Harry’s work number, but given the time, it was unlikely she was there anymore. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. What was he going to do?

His mobile rang, and he jumped about a foot, answering it on reflex. “Hello?”

“John?”

“Clara,” he let out a breath.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I…” he tried to gather himself and felt like it was a losing battle. “It’s just… It’s mum… And… And I can’t get a hold of Harry.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t…”

“John. It’s fine. Keep breathing and don’t vomit on the nurses.”

He let out a tight laugh. “Yeah. Yeah. Ok.”

By the time Clara arrived, John was reinstalled at the bedside, holding his mother’s hand. She was asleep. Resting. Post-ictal, benzo-heavy, and in something akin to a coma. But she looked peaceful. He could almost convince himself it was sleep. Almost. Clara pulled up a chair and sat quietly. “Seizure,” John said finally. Clara’s hand rested on his shoulder. “They… The doctor is going to come back in a few minutes. Wants to talk.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

He nodded. “Any word from Harry?”

“She’ll turn up.”

Why did he have trouble believing that?

They both looked up to the knock on the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m Doctor Caden. You must be Mr. Watson?”

“Doctor,” Clara corrected.

John stood, just a little unsteady and shook the doctor’s hand. “John Watson. This is my sister-in-law, Clara Rhee.”

“I’m sorry to be meeting you in these circumstances. I think we should have a word. There’s a room just down the hall that may be better suited?”

John glanced at his mum. She was resting. She wouldn’t be awake for hours… If… He gave a tight nod. “Yes. Alright.”

The conversation was brief. John knew how they went, but it was odd being on the other side of it. Some strange corner of his mind was critiquing the doctor’s approach. Adequate compassion. Poor check of comprehension. Discussion of options utter fail. John knew it was coming. He knew it would need to be discussed. His mum wasn’t young. She wasn’t curable. She was going to deteriorate quickly. Comfort was requisite. Resuscitation… Futile. They discussed the basics of the NFR. John signed it awkwardly with his right hand. He’d need to get rid of the sling soon. The doctor stood and excused himself, leaving the pair alone in the room.

“John?” Clara’s hand was back on his shoulder. He grunted. “You should get some rest.”

He nodded almost absently.

“John, have you had anything to eat today?”

He nodded then stopped. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“John?”

He finally turned to look at her.

“She’s asleep. She’s not going to wake up tonight. You should get some rest. If anything changes, they’ll call. I’m taking you home, you’ll eat something, then you’re getting some sleep.”

He sighed heavily. “Ok. Right. You’re… You’re right.”

“You won’t be doing her any good if you make yourself sick,” Clara said gently.

“Am I doing her any good?”

Clara studied his face for a long moment. “Sometimes, John, holding someone’s hand is the most important thing you can do for them.”

He nodded. He swallowed, nodded again and stopped. His face pinched. “Then why do I feel like I just signed her death warrant?”

_“M’llo?” The ringing phone jarred him from sleep, and he answered on reflex before his eyes were open. The things on-call did to people._

_“Johnny?”_

_Shit. He rubbed his eyes and fumbled with the clock. It was half two in the sodding morning. “Mum? What’s wrong?”_

_She sniffed loudly. “Oh, it’s awful. It’s just awful. Please, John, you have to come in.”_

_He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Now he was well awake. “Where are you? What’s wrong?”_

_“I’m at Bart’s,” there was a choked off sob._

_“Mum. Mum!” He struggled into jeans and tugged a hoodie over his head before cramming his feet into the nearest shoes. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”_

_There was more sniffing. “It’s your father.”_

_John felt his blood run cold. “Did he…” Oh if that man touched his mother._

_“Johnny, I can’t… I can’t do it.”_

_“Do what, mum?”_

_“Just please come in.”_

_“I’m on my way. Alright. I’ll be there. Mum? I’m on my way.”_

_A horrible number of desperate scenarios ran through his head as he drove in. And by the time he’d arrived, he felt the rage simmering under his skin. Until he saw his mum. She looked… devastated. “Mum?” She nearly collapsed into him. “Hey,” he shushed her. “Hey, you’re alright. What’s wrong? What happened?”_

_“It was an accident. They said it was an accident,” she sniffed._

_“What was an accident, mum? Who said?”_

_“He just… wandered out into the road. And then they called. And someone has to identify the body. I can’t do it, John. I can’t…”_

_He sucked in a breath and forced himself to hold very still. Very, very still. “Mum,” he said carefully. “Are there any doctors? Or cops? Someone around that I should talk to?”_

_His mother waved a hand absently in the direction of the A &E._

_“Will you be alright here for a few minutes?” he waited for him mother to nod before settling her in a chair and heading for the reception. It only took two minutes to find the officer to take him down to the morgue._

_The pathologist was there, filling out some last minute paperwork, reviewing a few slides. She looked up. “Oh, hey, John!”_

_His smile was stiff. “Grace.”_

_“I thought you were out cutting in Chelmsford,” she said brightly. Must be doing a few shifts on nights to be that chipper at nearly three._

_“I am,” he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Come to think of it, he probably looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. He did just roll out of bed._

_Her smile didn’t really waver with the puzzled look she gave him. “So… you just dropping down to say hi in the middle of the night?”_

_He shifted and cleared his throat. “No…” He wet his lips compulsively. “I uh…” he motioned at the cop standing in the hallway. “I’m here to…” God, was there a polite way to say, ‘make sure my sonuvabitch father is really and truly dead,’?_

_“Oh,” her smile faded. “Oh… Watson… Shit.”_

_“It’s ok,” he said quickly. “Kinda nice to have a friendly face here. I just have to…” his hands gestured weakly._

_“Right.” Grace stood and tilted her head. “This… This way.”_

_When Grace brought him to the body, he felt the air leave in a whoosh. All the breath he’d trapped in his lungs for ages just escaped and a heavy weight seemed to drop off of his shoulders. The scene was rather grotesque and Grace must have thought the damage was affecting him, but John was actually struggling not to laugh. Dead. He was finally dead. Why did he feel so relieved? Pull yourself together, Watson. “Yeah,” John gave a tight nod and turned to the officer. “That’s him.”_

One week. A full week of sleep. Of sedated slumber. Of confusion and seizures. Of comfort measures and comas. If he was honest about it, his mum didn’t really wake up in that time. But she said hello to him once or twice. She never asked about Harry. Small blessings; John didn’t know how he’d be able to answer. He hadn’t seen her at all. He wasn’t sure if she was coming home at night. Clara assured him that she was. He left the occasional message on Harry’s mobile to keep her updated. She never rang back.

Clara had been his savior through the week. Bringing him cups of tea, bits of food, making him sleep and eat, making him walk around and leave the hospital from time to time. Enough of hospitals. Enough of hospitals for a lifetime. He knew time was running short. He knew the signs as well as any medical professional. He just didn’t know what to do about it. Except to sit. To sit there, hold her hand, occasionally say something. But they were never ones for chat.

Another morbid conversation with the doctors, and John knew that the next week was a stretch. They were being optimistic. She wouldn’t make it another week. And he didn’t know what to do. He sat there feeling numb. Clara brought him home.

“Well isn’t this precious?” Harry said flatly as they walked in the door.

John gave her a weary, empty expression and dropped onto the couch. “What is?”

“The two of you, spending so much time together.” Harry tipped the rim of her wine glass at each of them in turn. “Didn’t realize you were friends.”

John sighed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “What?”

“She’s _my_ wife, John.”

That had his attention. His head snapped up as he shot her an incredulous look. “What?”

“Harry!” Clara snapped, crossing her arms and glaring.

“What?” she raised a brow. “Too close to home?”

Clara genuinely calm and sweet disposition wavered. “Apologize, Harry. Right now.”

“Or what?” Harry snorted.

Clara didn’t stomp. She didn’t shout. She didn’t threaten. She simply retrieved the open wine bottle and upended it in the sink. “You are not thinking clearly, Harry.” She set the empty bottle aside, opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of white, repeating the process. “Your mother is dying. And you’re sitting in the dark making up stories.”

“Stop it!” Harry hissed.

Clara found an open bottle of vodka, tipped it into the sink with the wine. “Your brother is hurting. And you’re twisting the knife in deeper.” She set the empty glass bottle aside and collected the whiskey.

“Don’t you dare!” Harry leapt out of her seat as Clara poured the whiskey out, slowly and deliberately.

“Your wife,” Clara glared. “As you are so firmly clear on, misses you. And you are drowning yourself out of spite.” The whiskey bottle thunked heavily on the counter. John stood, shifting his weight uneasily. “Do not pretend that I am the one being unfaithful right now.”

“How dare you!” Harry roared.

Clara crossed her arms again. “I love you, Harry. But right now, I don’t like you very much.”

“Get out!” Harry snarled, closing the distance between them.

John moved. It was a split second too late and half a step shy of where he needed to be, and Harry lashed out, cracking an open palm across Clara’s cheek. The only sound of objection seemed to have escaped from John’s own throat, and he grabbed Harry’s wrist as she wound up for another. “Harry!”

Clara tilted her head slowly, her cheek a shocking shade of red against her otherwise tawny skin. She watched Harry, an unnaturally calm expression on her face. “Sleep it off, Harry,” she said finally, and strode purposefully from the room.

“Harry…” The name bled out of John as he felt his heart fall to pieces. “What did you do?”

She rounded on him, eyes sparking with anger. “Fuck you, John!” He released her wrist as she tried to yank it free and she stumbled slightly. “Fuck you!” she spat again. “Not content until everyone thinks you’re the golden child! Jesus! She’s my fucking wife!”

“Harry,” he put his hands up in an act of surrender.

“No! Don’t you ‘Harry’ me!” She stomped across the room and threw on her coat, scooping up her wallet and purse and stuffing them into her pockets. “Everyone has to love you best! Everyone! Sod this. No. Fuck you!” She stormed to the door and threw it open.

“Wait! Harry… Mum…”

“Fuck mum!” Harry snapped. “She doesn’t even have the decency to die quickly! Well fuck you and fuck her too!” The door slamming in her wake actually rattled some of Clara’s framed paintings where they hung on the wall.

His breath punched out as he stared at the door. And he blinked, blinked to bite back the tears. She promised… His face drew inwards in a slow flinch as he tried to steady himself. Breathe. Breathe… Air. He needed air. It was a quick stride across the room to the balcony, and he threw himself outside, bracing himself against the railing and heaving deep breaths as though he’d been drowning. It was everything they’d promised themselves they wouldn’t do. Oh God. He was going to be sick.

He dropped into the nearby chair and tucked his head between his knees, working against the drive to hyperventilate. Oh God. Harry, what have you done? After a few minutes, he found himself steady enough to push back upright and he tilted his head back with a sigh. They’d been fine. Harry and Clara, they were perfectly happy until he’d come home. How did he manage to fuck that up too? God, he was fucking toxic.

He didn’t hear the door open, but the snick of a cigarette lighter drew his attention. Clara settled into the second chair and took a long drag on the smoke. “I gave these up years ago,” she murmured.

“Clara…”

She turned to look at him in the low light and smiled weakly. “You know, Harry made me quit?” She chuckled. “Ironic.”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Me too.” She sighed and gazed out over the railing at the night sky; inky black, without a star to be seen so deep in the city.

“She… She promised, Clara.” John stared at his hands. “We promised each other. We wouldn’t… Wouldn’t abandon each other.”

“Funny, sometimes I wish she’d leave me alone.” Clara took another drag on the cigarette, blowing a long stream of smoke up toward the sky. “I could argue she made quite a similar promise to me.”

“God,” he dropped his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” she asked flippantly. “You think you brought on this fight in the less than three weeks you’ve been around. John,” she gave him a wry smile. “Please. This is far from our first row, and we’ve been listing into this for ages. She’s been struggling with these demons for longer than I’ve known her. It’s never come to blows before, but I can’t say I’m that surprised.”

“I’m just… I would never…” He chewed on his lower lip.

“Never what?” She leaned forward, shooting him dark look. “Never strike someone in anger? Never hit a family member?” He groaned and gripped the back of his neck. She was right. She was totally right. “No one’s perfect, John. And Harry knows more about her imperfections than anyone. She’s totally aware of her shortcomings and it doesn’t help that you cast such a large shadow.”

John snorted. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She poked his knee. “How well did you do in secondary school? Weren’t you captain of your rugby team? Mr. Surgeon? Army hero? Apple of your mother’s eye?”

He shook his head. “I get it.”

“Do you?” Clara turned her attention back to her cigarette. “Because even the fact that your father never seemed to care enough to hit her is a sore point.”

“What?”

“John,” she waved at him vaguely. “I never said it wasn’t twisted. But it’s still a thing. It’s her thing. And yeah, it’s fucked up, but aren’t we all?”

“Jesus, Clara,” he sighed and rested his forehead in his palm.

“And I’m hopelessly attracted to damaged things,” she puffed out a cloud of smoke. “In another life, John. If I’d met you first… I suppose that’s the artist in me.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I won’t argue the damaged point.”

“You know I love her, John. Not the same way you do. But we do, the pair of us, love her.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“She’ll be back.”

“And… You’d… You’d take her back?”

“That’s the problem with loving broken things. Can’t really be mad at them when the gears get stuck.”

He nodded at the sick sense that made. Clara turned her attention back out to the sky and John followed her gaze. Somehow, it seemed darker and clearer than a few minutes ago. The minute movement caught in his peripheral vision as Clara’s fingers unfurled slowly. He glanced at it, at her open hand, and understood. He set his hand in hers and curled his fingers around her palm. And they sat there, holding hands until her cigarette had burned down to the filter and the cold was enough that they started to feel it.

And three days later, when John’s mum passed away, he was at her side, holding her hand. And Clara’s hand was on his shoulder. And Harry was still woefully absent.

_The fourth night in a row that John woke in a cold sweat, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands until they stopped shaking and his breathing came back down to normal. It took longer than he wanted to admit for both of those to happen. With a heavy sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair and scraped at his scalp. Yeah. He wasn’t getting back to sleep._

_He glanced around the room as he rubbed his shoulder absently. Nearly everything he had to his name. His eyes landed on the box half tucked under the bed. He’d put off opening it out of distraction first, then some sort of belligerent anti-curiosity. The moment he opened it, there’d be no more mystery. Anything could be in the box. Anything. And to look would make it something. And likely something disappointing. Out of pure perverse obstinacy, he tried to convince himself that it was empty. There. Now if there was anything in it, he’d be pleasantly surprised. That in mind, he peeled back the tape and pulled open the flaps._

_Huh? There was something soft and… knit on top? He pulled it from the box and shook it out. A jumper? He tilted his head at the oatmeal colored cable knit. It was probably a bit big for him, given the weight he’d lost while he was sick. Huh. It wasn’t what he was expecting… Not that he was expecting anything. He draped it over his shoulder to reach into the box and the smell hit him. Oh… Oh. God. It smelled like gun oil and cologne._

_His hand clamped over his mouth as he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. God. He dug around in the box and came up with an envelope. A letter. He set it aside to pull out the heavy case in the bottom. A warm sensation wrapped around his chest as he flicked open the locking mechanism and ran his index finger reverently along the barrel of his Browning. He sighed. It was like a security blanket. He left the case open, and fished out the last item. It was a decorative wooden box. His brows quirked as he turned it over in his hands. It looked old. Antique, rather. A dark stained oak. Not ornate, but clean, durable, practical and functional. He opened it. Oh… His service medals. His stripes. His VC. His tags. Oh…_

_With an unsteady breath, he pulled out the letter and read it. He huffed out a laugh. It was short, terse even. It referred to the jumper as civilian camouflage, it called the Browning a well-earned souvenir, it termed the box a service coffin that he could bury if needs be. When he pinched the bridge of his nose, he promised himself it was not to hold back tears. He tucked the letter into the gun case and stacked the case and box on the nightstand. Then he may or may not have put on the jumper. He may or may not have curled up and fallen asleep to the smell. It was the first proper sleep he’d had in London._

What was it about childhood homes? They were so unchanging. John sighed, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. It still smelled the same. His nose twitched. When was the last time he’d been here? Before he’d shipped off? It felt like a lifetime ago. He took in the space cautiously, as if he expected to be surprised, ghosts of his youth hovering in the shadows of the dusty spaces. His mother hovering by the kettle; tea as the ultimate cure-all. His father, long dead now, seated in that damned chair. Harry… Where was she?

He’d been worried about getting there late himself, struggling to hail a damned cab. But she was nowhere to be seen, her appearances brief and blotchy over the past two weeks. He furrowed his brow. God, he hated this place. He didn’t even know where to start.

With a frown, he struggled up the stairs to his old room. It looked untouched. Unchanged since he headed off to Uni. He stood in the doorway and couldn’t bring himself to walk in. A childhood of memories in one small, single room, and half of them the reason for his deployment. A tactical retreat. He sighed and turned to the next room, opening the door into Harry’s old room. Even more dated than his own… The corner of his mouth twitched. Yes, he could start in here. He assembled one of the many cardboard boxes, wrote ‘Harry’ in solid block letters on the side, and settled in to collect the nostalgia he thought she may wish to hold on to.

_Reading the will had been a private and small affair. John, Harry, and Clara had attended the solicitor’s office only two days following the funeral. John was still numb, limping sorely along behind his sister and dropping into the chair heavily in spite of the missing pounds from his short frame._

_Reading the will had been a short affair. After all, there wasn’t much in way of Watson fortune. His father hadn’t left behind anything but scars. And his mother had lived rather simply. The cost of her illness had decimated anything that could be considered savings or pension or income. Penniless wasn’t the word for it, but John tried to take some solace in the fact that she hadn’t actually died alone._

_Reading the will had been a disastrous affair. Worldly possessions to be divided between himself and Harry. Anything unwanted to be sold at the estate sale. Money to be split evenly. The house was his. John balked. What was he supposed to do with a house? He didn’t want it. He’d never wanted it. He was invalided home with no job, no prospects, no family beyond his sister, and yet the deed was handed over. Harry was the one married. Harry was the one looking, or had been looking, to start a family. Harry and Clara should have the house. That Clara, Harry’s wife of three years, was not mentioned in the will was just salt in the wounds, and Harry’s temper boiled over._

_“Take the house, Harry,” John whispered, holding the deed out to her._

_She scowled at it. “Unlike you, I actually have housing at the moment.”_

_John flinched. “I don’t want it… Harry, please.”_

_“What makes you think I want your charity right now, baby brother?” She crossed her arms and glared at him._

_“Harry,” Clara said softly._

_He gave her a panicked look. “I’ll sell it. Harry, we can sell it. Split the money.”_

_Harry scoffed, picked up her purse, and stormed out of the office._

_“Harry!” John clambered out of his chair. God dammed sodding injuries! He couldn’t catch her before the door slammed in her wake. Why? Why now? They’d, the pair of them, both decided ages ago that they wanted nothing,_ nothing _from their parents. He didn’t want it. She didn’t want it. Why? He grit his teeth. He sighed and tried to pull himself up to attention. He winced and gave up and turned to apologize. He didn’t fail to notice the solicitor handing a business card to Clara._

He heard the slam of a car door and he pushed stiffly up from the floor. He patted the dust out of the knees of his jeans and headed for the front door. Must be Harry. Better late than never. He made it to the door in time to see the cab pull away. Dusk. How had it gotten so late? And come to think of it, how was Harry only just getting here?

He stepped outside and onto the front walk. “Harry?”

She was still fiddling with her purse, flinging her wallet back into the bag and cussing about something he couldn’t identify. “Yeah, yeah. This fucking, god dammed thing.”

“Where… We were going to meet here hours ago, Harry.”

“And I bet you’ve done it perfectly anyway,” she muttered, halting a few feet from him.

“Harry.”

“You eat yet today?” she crossed her arms over her chest.

Bloody hell, she was drunk. That’s where she was? Drinking? John closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not hungry,” he growled. “You could have called, let me know you were running late.”

Harry rolled her eyes, fished a packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket, and lit her cigarette from a pack of matches. “You don’t even know how to use a mobile.”

John pursed his lips. “I was here. You know the number for the house.”

“How could I forget?” she hummed, letting out a long stream of smoke.

John’s brows drew down as he glowered. His shoulder was aching from the time he’d let it out of the sling. His right leg was cramping as he tried to maintain his firm posture. And if he was honest with himself, the crushing sensation behind his sternum was his heart hurting. After a long moment, he sighed. “Are you going to come in and help?”

“That house is nothing but bad memories.”

“Harry,” he objected weakly.

“There is absolutely nothing within those walls that I could possibly want.”

“You don’t even…”

“I do,” she said flatly, her eyes going a deep shade of navy. “There is _nothing_ in there for me. And there’s nothing for you, John.” She advanced on him, crossing the front walk smoothly in her heels, drawing up to meet him toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. And it wasn’t the alcohol on her breath that had John pulling away. “That place is full of nothing but horrible memories and trauma. It is toxic,” she hissed.

“Harry…”

“No, that’s ok. Go ahead,” she flicked the ash from her cigarette with purpose. “Name one good thing to come out of that place. One. Good. Thing.”

His brow furrowed. “Mum was-”

“No she wasn’t,” Harry broke in with venom. “She supported him, protected him, sang his praises with her dying breath. Even after he put you in hospital, put her in hospital, landed in the clink, drank himself to death. After all of that, she idolized him. It was sick, John,” she snarled around the memories. “And do you know what she always said about you?”

He tried to set his face. He tried, and knew he failed with the tremble that ran through the thin line of his mouth. “Don’t…”

“That you were so like him. ‘Isn’t Johnny just like your da?’” Harry spat out the words and John flinched. Her smile became dark and angry. “Funny how she had that the wrong way around.” He tried to cover his wince by turning his face away, but Harry knew all his tricks, the avoidance, the places he could hide, and she was not in a merciful mood. She poked two fingers into his sternum. “You think I don’t know why you left? You think you shook it off over there? You didn’t. You can’t. It was never _you_ , John. There was nothing wrong with you! You aren’t toxic. You aren’t damaged. You aren’t poison. It’s this place! It’s them! And you need to stop holding on to it.”

He felt his face twitch in multiple expressions at once as he tried to pull himself back up into something like parade rest. He swallowed and watched Harry as if she might bite him; hell, she already had. “You came out of here,” he said finally.

The corner of her mouth twitched up, but it was hard to tell if it was a smile or a sneer. “If that’s the best you can come up with, I think I’ve made my point.”

“What do you want me to do, Harry?”

She held out her mobile. “Take it.”

His face pinched as he accepted the phone. “Didn’t Clara…”

“Yes,” Harry frowned. “Take it. I put your name on the plan. My number is in there. Call me, you know, every now and then.”

“Harry…”

She dropped the cigarette, crushed the butt under the toe of her shoe, and addressed the crumbled ash on the ground. “You know what I think you should do, John? Do you really want to know?”

“Of course.”

She lifted her eyes and the expression was like a punch in the gut. Anger. Trauma. Loathing. Guilt. Rage. Pain. Self-reproach. And John knew he only recognized it so quickly, because he mirrored it back. She flicked the pack of matches at him and he managed to catch them against his chest. “Burn it to the ground.”

He nearly crumbled. He felt the cold shiver race up his back to match the malice in his sister’s voice. And he knew she was serious. And he was going to cry. Everything throbbed with dull pain in an orchestral arrangement of harmony as Harry turned on her heel and strode down the front walk. Away. Away from the house. Away from their childhood. Away from him. Don’t leave. You promised! Harry, don’t leave me alone.

She let herself out the gate and turned toward the main road. Maybe to find a cab. More likely to find a pub. “And get yourself a new fucking wardrobe, John,” she called without turning back, kicking him again while he was down. “You look like Grandpa.”


	14. Dead Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 14 TWs  
> \- Depression  
> \- Allusions to eating disorder  
> \- Allusions to anxiety/panic  
> \- Thoughts of self-harm  
> \- Thoughts of suicide  
> \- Traumatic childhood experiences  
> \- Drowning  
> \- Death  
> \- Abuse
> 
> I know that's a lot of TWs, I want to make sure I don't leave any big ones out... Reichy had suggested putting "EVERYTHING" down as a TW. I don't think she's wrong. Look. If you are depressed, have had depression, this might be a bit close to home. So if you are easily triggered, give the chapter a miss. Massive thank you to to my bun Reichy (both as inspiration and beta and ridiculous friend on another continent). Officially just have one chapter to follow this. I think you all know where we were in the timeline. Again, if you think I need to add any TWs, please let me know. PS: I'm going to find John Watson and wrap him in cuddles and give him kitten therapy.
> 
> **"Sailing on my every step. Inching off of the earth is magnified by the things I’ve done; the thing that I’ve become. Every lift of my hand, coffee cup up and back, is magnified by the things I’ve done; the things I’ve seen; the things I’ve caused. I’m a dead man walking..."**  
>  ~ Dead Man, Pearl Jam

John woke with a start, struggling against the sheet and his oversized pajamas. He sat on the edge of his bed stiffly, the thin patina of sweat and horror sinking heavily on his small frame before he found the sense to shake it off. He pushed himself to stand and grit his teeth against the cramping pain in his right leg. He made himself some tea and a small bowl of porridge. He sat at his desk. He ate. Slowly. Methodically. And only through intense concentration. He finished his tea, barely tasting it. He set the mug and bowl aside and glanced absently at the laptop in the corner of the surface. No.

He tugged open the top drawer of the desk and pulled out the Browning. With slow deliberate motions, he freed the clip and emptied it, piecewise in front of him. He carefully disassembled the sidearm. He cleaned it, reassembled it, and slid each bullet back into clip before reloading it. He primed the chamber and let the grip sit comfortably in his right palm. He sat. He switched it to his left hand and continued to sit.

John woke. He replaced the Browning in the drawer with no small amount of reverence and snapped the drawer shut. He pushed himself up, limped into the loo, and cleaned and dressed to a socially acceptable level. He shrugged into his jacket, collected his cane without interest and walked out of his beige little flat. He hobbled around London, aimless in his direction, ambivalent to his surroundings, and sitting when the hitch in his gait made him stumble. It was late autumn, the weather not even remotely warm or dry, though not close to snow yet. The weather meant his tottering went relatively uninterrupted and unheeded. He glanced at his watch and scuffled to his physio appointment.

Yes, he’d been doing his exercises, as requested. No, he’d not tried to do another push up, as requested. Yes, the range of motion seemed to be getting better. No, the shaking wasn’t gone. Yes, it ached in the rain. No, he wasn’t sleeping on his side. Yes, his leg was giving him trouble. No, he’d not had his knee completely give out again. Yes, he was walking. No, it didn’t seem to be worse in the cold. Yes, he would try harder. No, he didn’t want any other medication. He winced through the exercises. He grimaced as he was stretched.

Ella asked him to explain what had happened. Talk through the event that sent him back to the UK. He managed six words before he nearly suffocated in a panic attack. She never asked again. He limped home.

He forced himself to eat a bowl of soup for dinner, the taste rather unpleasant and the food sat heavily in his stomach. He turned on the laptop, glared at the screen, read a few of his emails and answered only one. He looked at the sheet of instructions for starting a blog, frowned, and replaced it on the desk. He couldn’t find any words, any relevance bouncing around in his head. It wasn’t still or quiet, it was chaos, a swirl of dark memories and pain and anger and nothing suitable for public consumption. He changed into pajamas and glanced at the bottle that sat on his shelf. He had no taste for it, but kept it there, just in case. When he closed his eyes, he knew what was waiting for him. Sometimes he hoped for insomnia over sleep. Sometimes. He turned off the light.

_He remembered being in basic. The first few weeks of training. They were agony. Not physically. They were demanding physically. But John was used to lack of sleep. He was used to pushing his body beyond its normal limits. He was used to food as fuel rather than pleasure. He was used to cold. He was used to aches and bruises. Physically, it was a series of reminders. Mentally, it was pain._

_After spending years training to keep people alive, keep people healthy, improve the human condition, he was teaching himself how to damage people, how to drive them to exhaustion, how to kill. After years of precision and manual dexterity, a gun sat easily in his palm. After years of balancing hormones with electrolytes, antibiotics with enzymes, strategy came as second nature. After years of taming the rage, holding himself back, balking at his violent capabilities, he was being told, being ordered to let it loose. And it was terrifying what he found himself capable of. And even more horrifying that he never wanted to rein it in again._

John woke. He fought his way to sitting and perched on the edge of his bed. He swiped his sleeve across his brow and stood. His right knee wobbled. He made some food, sat at the desk, and ate it. He drank his tea. And he glared at his laptop as if it had personally offended him. But he couldn’t find the angry impulse to chuck it across the room.

He opened the drawer. He ritualistically disassembled and reassembled his Browning. And when he sat with it, his palm warming the grip, he thought about using it. He wouldn’t though. He put it back in the drawer.

He cleaned himself, he dressed himself, and he left the small bedsit. He walked. The cold had set in on London. The damp streets were slick with frosty patches that made progress difficult and he resorted to the tube. He wondered if anyone would notice if he didn’t show up to his appointment. He felt the air move as one of the trains blew through the station and wondered just how much of a nudge it would take to knock him onto the tracks. He wouldn’t jump though. London was getting ready for Christmas. He noted it with a numbness that permeated each of his movements. He noted it because of the crowds and packages and the people that jostled him out of the way. Like he was baggage. He glanced at his watch and scuffled to his physio appointment.

Yes, exercises. No, still having strength problems. Yes, improved. No, still shaking. Yes, aching. No, not sleeping. Not sleeping on his side. Yes, problems. No, not giving up… out. Not giving out. Yes, walking, but ice. Yes, worse in cold. No, he couldn’t try harder. He rolled his eyes at medications. He pushed through the exercises. He sniffed and hissed at the stretching. He limped down the street to another appointment.

Ella scolded him about not starting his blog. He traced the wooden patterns on the arm of the chair with his fingertips. The corner of his mouth twitched at some of her questions. She understood what he’d been through. She had no idea. His file was redacted. That part of his life was officially removed from the record. He was half erased. No one would miss him if the rest was deleted. He limped to the tube and hung his head when he realized he’d never be able to jump.

He forwent dinner. His stomach was churning uncomfortably, why bother with the impending vomiting later. Like drowning. He had a cup of tea. He started a blog… But left the entry blank. Nothing worth writing. I exist isn’t worth a blog post. Harry had emailed. She was drunk. His brain was blank, dark and blank. He changed into pajamas. The bottle was gathering dust. His life was gathering dust. He turned off the light and braced himself for nightmares.

_He remembered the first time one of his patients died. It was long before the army. As an intern, yes, his team had lost patients along the way. As a house officer, sure, he’d pronounced many people. But the first time it was his. The first time his hands were bloody with the failure. The first time his skill just wasn’t enough and his speed just wasn’t enough and his stamina failed. It was like being dunked head first into a bucket of ice water._

_He remembered talking to the family. He remembered them thanking him for all he’d done. That was like a knife in the heart. It hurt worse than any physical blow he’d ever taken. Who thanks someone for killing their family? It affected his work. He became too cautious. Too slow. Too methodical. Something his boss noticed. Something his boss shouted out of him one night when he was too much of a coward to cut. It was a blow to his pride. A blow to his self-worth. But a kick in the arse. The desire to act became innate. He no longer felt comfortable static. Even when motionless he was thinking, planning, winding like a spring so that when it became possible he was fully kinetic._

John woke. He considered not getting up. He sat, caught his breath and stood. He flinched at the fact that the pain still twinged in his leg. There was nothing wrong with his leg. It was just broken like he was. He sat at the desk and ate something. He didn’t care what it was as long as he didn’t collapse again. He drank his tea out of a mug that Bill had given him. He’d feel better if he didn’t watch Bill die every night when he tried to sleep.

He opened the drawer. He cleaned the Browning. He wondered how much a single bullet was worth. He weighed it against his life. He wouldn’t though. He put it back in the drawer.

He went through the motions. He limped out of one hell and into another. The snow was awful. January was awful. He was awful. Everything… He sighed and wished someone would mug him so he could just be stabbed to death. He probably looked like an easy enough target. But no one noticed him anymore. He was a shadow in the London fog. Ugh, physio.

Yes. No. No. No. Yes. What even is sleep? Yes. N… No. Yes, but snow. Yes. Seriously? Stop. Please stop. They’d cleared his shoulder. It was as good as it would get, which meant that it was fine, except for the tremor… Which was nearly always there. His leg though… Exercise, stretch, drift home.

He sat at the desk and wondered how to delete his blog. There was nothing on it anyway. No one answered. His inbox was empty too. He ate a piece of fruit. Drank a cup of tea. He sat still. Momentum was gone. There was no bottle to glare at; he’d shattered it against the wall rather than look at it again. Shards of glass were too much of a temptation, so he’d left it for a few days before cleaning. He turned off the light. Sleep wasn’t something he expected anymore.

_He remembered being ten. The one summer his family took a holiday to the shore. It had been an unmitigated disaster. Harry had discovered boys, or rather, boys a few years her senior had discovered Harry and Harry was doing anything and everything to keep that attention. John was too small for that crowd. Too little rather than too young. So his father had insisted on paying closer attention to him. Teaching him a thing or two about swimming. Teaching him a thing or two about drowning._

_He may have only been ten, but John had already learned that his father’s lessons were painful. Swimming was no exception. He knew enough to tread water. Knew enough to keep his head above water. Even when the currents pushed him this way and that, John kept his chin up, nose above the waves, feet kicking, hands paddling. Treading water. Dad told him to keep going. Then dad disappeared._

_The first mouthful of salt water had been a shock. He sputtered and coughed it out. Kicked a bit harder, regained that extra inch of clearance over the waterline. He was tired. He tried to get a good look around, but there didn’t seem to be anyone nearby. There didn’t seem to be anyone watching him from the shore. And another wave rocked into him from behind. He sputtered and tilted his head back and caught small sips of air._

_He was more than tired. He was exhausted. And the taste of salt in his mouth was drying. His throat was raw with it. It burned his eyes. His arms were aching. He bobbed up and down more from the waves than his own efforts. He couldn’t even pull himself into a dead man’s float. Oh God, he was drowning. The thought should have terrified him into action, but what action? He tried to lift an arm to wave, but that dunked him just low enough to get a face full of water. The salt caught in his mouth, stripped his voice. He couldn’t find the air to actually shout. This was drowning. Slow pull under the water. Too tired to save himself. All efforts of self-preservation were focused on just keeping air coming in and out. His head dipped under again. And again. His lungs were burning. He sputtered quietly. He was drowning. He was dying. His head went under. And again. And again. And it was dark and cold._

_Then his knees and hands were on the wet sand. And he vomited out salt water. He coughed and vomited and coughed again. His arms shook. His whole body shook. And the firm hand between his shoulder blades wasn’t his father’s, it wasn’t even anyone he knew. Just a bloke in red swim trunks. Now shouting for his parents. His mom bundled him up in a towel. Brought him back to the cottage. Followed the instructions given by the lifeguard to the T. His father didn’t come back until the wee hours of the morning. After Harry had snuck back in, after John had vomited and coughed until there was nothing left inside._

He became a compilation of action verbs, being only what he was doing at the time. He woke. He ate. He cleaned. He dressed. He walked. He rarely spoke. He went. He came back. He ate. He went to bed. Going through the motions. Becoming ritual. This was living, as he was so constantly reminded. “You’re alive, John.” Not really. He was breathing. He was eating. He was moving. He was… He was. And the slow sink, the casual ebb of all warmth and care left him hollow, apathetic in all regards. Maybe if he wasn’t so damn tired, he could actually do something about it. Drowning. But he sighed. Dropped his head. Limped on.

It had probably been a poor decision, but when Bear invited him out for drinks with the rugby lads, he couldn’t come up with any viable reason not to. Somehow, an appointment with Ella didn’t even register. Everyone was older. Everyone was slower. Everyone was a little bit fatter, except himself. Bear had nearly knocked him over with a clap on the back before he’d noticed the cane. The subsequent cheery ruffle of his hair was rough enough, but didn’t stagger him. The three rounds he managed to keep up with did stagger him. His stomach had been empty. He didn’t have the muscle mass to drink like that. He didn’t quite fit there anymore. He didn’t have the energy to try. No one seemed to see him.

He got quiet. It made him even less noticeable. Bear took him out for chips to get out of the pub and away from the mob. They spoke in vague hyperbole and bullshit. Bear didn’t push him for specifics. And standing outside the drab building that John had stored his life in, Bear gave him a sad smile in response to the forced one on his face. “Wash it off,” Bear said with a hand on his shoulder. “Wash it all off.” John had nodded. There was nothing else to say to that.

He either passed out or had dreamless sleep. It wasn’t particularly restful. He couldn’t force himself up for tea until noon. He ignored Ella’s call, lied about losing his phone. He felt miserable. It wasn’t just a hangover. It was as if he’d woke with an extra layer of weight pulling him down into the earth. Thoughts of moving were only slightly less exhausting than actually doing so. He needed to go buy his food for the week, but couldn’t force himself to get dressed. He’d had chips with Bear. He could leave it until the next day.

The hollow feeling in his chest expanded, pulling him in. He curled up under the blankets and tried to remember that he was still alive. Still being. Still breathing. And it was so hard to remember that it made his head hurt. And he cried. And once it started, he couldn’t stop it. His eyes burned with the tears and his throat closed over the sobs. He couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt. And he didn’t stop until the pain or the lack of oxygen or the dehydration or the crushing weight of it all made him pass out.


	15. A Rush of Blood to the Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _Everything_ is always John Watson's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 15 TWs  
> \- Depression  
> \- Nightmares  
> \- Thoughts of self-harm  
> \- Thoughts of suicide  
> \- Allusions to eating disorder  
> \- Drowning  
> \- Burning/fire  
> \- Death  
> \- Alcohol  
> \- Graphic descriptions of war  
> \- Graphic descriptions of violence  
> \- Season 1 spoilers???  
> \- Sherlock Holmes
> 
> I know that's a lot of TWs, I want to make sure I don't leave any big ones out. I almost reverted to the "Everything" option. This chapter is unbeta'd (only because I was a belligerent author and wanted to get this out while it was still Wednesday, Reichy spritzed me in the face repeatedly to keep me motivated). I took one small liberty with the timeline, I don't think it's particularly relevant, but I know it's there. And yes, I abused the BBC's version of John Watson's blog (if you've never seen it, I'm more than happy to direct you its way). Again, if anyone thinks there's any additional TWs needed, please let me know. This is *sniffle* the last chapter for this work. I've never kept a schedule like this before, so I'm a bit proud of myself. There is a playlist for the fic (I've put the link at the very bottom of this chapter), but if you're looking for it, it'll be on my tumblr as well.
> 
> I cannot express enough appreciation to Reichy for beta-ing this work. She subjected herself to all the feels, her floor will never be the same, and she talked me down a few times (I luv you bun!). For those of you that have made it this whole way, thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for all your feedback (there has been so much lovely encouragement). Thank you for the kudos. Thank you for the questions. Just. Thank you.
> 
> I have one important question for y'all. It has been proposed, suggested, considered for me to take this work (as a compilation) up through the duration of the show. Essentially, follow John through the in between times that aren't on screen, the hiatus times, etc. Would that be something that you'd enjoy? Thoughts would be appreciated :) I've a few other things in the works as well, a few prompts to get through. But... I... Like it. I really like this voice for John (except that I still want to bundle him up and give him cuddles, because damn, man).
> 
>  **"Honey, all the movements you're starting to make. See me crumble and fall on my face. And I know the mistakes that I've made; see it all disappear without a trace. And they call as they beckon you on; they say start as you need to go on..."**  
>  ~ A Rush of Blood To the Head, Coldplay

He felt wrung out. Stretched too far and too tired to collect himself. Another night of surreal horror, different every time. He cursed his brain’s ability to create such a realistic dreamscape in his sleep. He cursed his heart’s protest at waking to find it missing in the morning. He wanted out. Out of this pit. Out of this bland existence. Out of the stillness and silence and inaction that defined his days. He just wanted out. It made him want to scream. It made him want to rage against the wind and rain and dull routine and subsistence. Surviving wasn’t going to be enough. Treading water wasn’t going to get it done. He wanted… He wanted to be seen again. To be something. To be someone. To belong somewhere. And instead he felt like a grey body in fog.

He forced himself to shower. It had been a day since his last one. Maybe. Perhaps two. He couldn’t be sure. Being warm and clean felt like a luxury he didn’t quite deserve, but he struggled through it. He wouldn’t force his grime onto the poor physios. They put up with enough of his rubbish as it was. He forced himself to eat a bowl of instant porridge. It was all that was left as far as food was concerned, and he wasn’t going to his appointment on a two-day empty stomach. Again, the physios put up with enough from him without him dropping mid exercise.

Something was shifting. Something was disturbing the routine. Something was altering his atmosphere. And he couldn’t decide if he was drifting or recalibrating. If the rock-bottom floor was about to crumble beneath him or his limping shuffle was finally producing some sort of result. And he was wary of it. Circumspect. Leery. Distrustful. He wasn’t a lucky man, and he’d never take change unguarded again.

He limped to his appointment through weather unseasonably mild for January. They spent fifteen minutes on his shoulder, stretching, moving, massaging. There was a pleasantly sore feeling when he tugged his shirt back on. He said thanks. The physio nearly tripped over his own feet. What John didn’t do was smile. He certainly didn’t feel like laughing. But the corner of his mouth twitched in the slightest upturn of acknowledgement. They moved on to his leg. John hissed as they started with stretching.

“Is it sore?”

John blinked. Of course it was sore. It was intermittently, unbearably painful.

“I mean,” the physio fumbled for a moment. “Is it worse today? The flexibility is better, the movements seem more natural, just… more tender?”

John winced. “Yeah. It’s sore.”

The physio nodded, adjusted, stretched a different way. It didn’t hurt as much. And the grimace fell from John’s face. “You don’t have to say. I don’t want to intrude. But. Your leg. How did you hurt it?”

“I…” John pressed his eyes shut and set his jaw. “I think, I’m… No, yeah. Someone kicked me. Just in base of the hamstrings. Missed the knee by about an inch.”

The man was quiet for a few minutes, working to relax the muscles around John’s knee. “When it gives out on you, what does it feel like? Is it pain first? Or…”

John shook his head. “It goes numb. Knee down. Gives way. Then there’s… It’s like a jolt of electricity, pins and needles, and it spasms and it’s sore for a while after.”

He nodded again. Had John flip onto his belly and started to stretch his hip. “I know I’m not a shrink. But you are a doctor. You have to know why I’m asking.”

John’s mouth twitched and he sniffed. “Because they don’t correlate properly.”

“Don’t tense that,” the physio scolded, easing out of a particularly difficult contortion of John’s knee and hip.

“Yes, Sir.” John actually huffed out a single laugh as he was helped back up to sitting. “Why today?” He sat stiffly, his back straight in an exaggerated posture of attention.

The physio gave him a long, hard look. “Because today is the first time I think you’ve ever really been here.” John nodded slowly. He didn’t have anything to say to that. But it was probably right.

He stopped at Tesco on the way home. He still couldn’t carry much, not with the cane, not with the limp and his shoulder still being… Less than. But he bought some fruit. Some milk. Some more tea. Soup. Things that would sit easily in his stomach. Things that wouldn’t tear up his oesophagus on the way back out. It was happening less frequently, but the perfect nightmares seemed to draw it back out of him regardless.

He ate a light dinner. He considered another entry on his blog, but nothing of substance seemed to coalesce in his thoughts. Dear Ella, I spoke to my physio today. No no, like I actually spoke to him, because I’ve been cleverly not actually present at any of my previous appointments, because I’m smart like that. She’d probably feel bad that he didn’t speak to her. It wouldn’t make sense. It was a terrible idea. He left the blog alone and opened his email.

There were three from Harry. All were a bit of a garbled mess. All involved them meeting for drinks soon. He sighed and deleted them, composing a new message from scratch. He’d been struggling to find the words, failed miserably in the past few missives. But this time, it seemed fairly clear cut. He would meet her, for lunch not dinner, and only if there was no alcohol. He couldn’t trust himself with downers, let alone Harry. She’d just have to understand that.

Blunt. But then again, Watsons weren’t people of subtlety. Given the last email he’d sent had been explaining why it was inappropriate for Harry to suggest that Ella was a love interest, publically, on his blog; he was desperately unsure how much Harry was willing to understand. He tamped down the urge to email Clara; they’d agreed that she’d contact him if or when she was ready. A heavy wave of loneliness rolled across his shoulders, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

He would have closed the laptop. He nearly did. But a new message popped up in his inbox. With a small frown, he opened it and read. Bill was passing through London on his way home, was hoping John might be free for lunch. He gnawed on his lower lip nervously. He felt guilty over avoiding Bill around the holidays. It had been worse when Bill had sent him a gift. Meeting face to face felt like too much. Too much. Not enough. All their history. And the radio silence John had maintained. But the thought of Bill leaving. Going out again and not coming back. John winced. He was being selfish, but if it was the only time he could say it, he’d have to. He emailed back with a recommendation near the train station.

_He collected his existence into a small box. Filled it with the memories of each of his previous lives. The empty cans of beer and football posters piled in with his filthy jersey and socks. His books and notes settle on top of a ratty old tee-shirt and modest ring. A scalpel and scrub cap covering the raunchy postcards from basic and a filthy beret dumped sand and ash and bullets into the smaller spaces. Bandages crammed in with the tip of a cane. His tags and medals, an oversized aran jumper, doused with day-old wine and stale whiskey._

_Then he added the people. His father and mother. His sister. Kelly. Dec. Everything from before and after basic. Dawson. Malcolm. Murphy. Scotty. Hughes. He put them in. Art and Morgan. Landers and Adams. Gleeson and Evans. All of them. His lives, all the lives in a small box. He glared at it with an unnatural stillness. He pulled out a pack of matches and lit it on fire. He watched it smoke as the water level rose. He watched it sit on the rippling surface and cremate. He watched the people and the pain burn as the icy waves lapped at his neck. He closed his eyes and held his breath as the ashes disappeared and dark waters engulfed him._

On days when he didn’t have appointments, John found it hard to get out of bed. It wasn’t difficult to wake up. Oh no, he woke before dawn. He woke as if he was torn out of sleep. He woke with a finality that wouldn’t let him doze. But being awake and physically emerging from his bed were two completely different things. He’d given up counting restful hours. He knew he was sleep deprived; no amount of math would repair that problem. He also knew that if he tried to sleep when the nightmares had ripped him from slumber, he’d only wake with another darker, more disturbing dream that would bleed into his day and seep into the following night.

It didn’t help that his body was still adjusting to a new order, a positioning that kept him on his back or very occasionally had him on his right side. His right shoulder didn’t curl properly for him to be comfortable that way, but he certainly couldn’t tolerate the pressure on the other side. It was something he must have realized weeks ago, because he couldn’t remember when exactly he’d pushed the bed against the wall in such a way that the solid, blank space protected his back when he managed to roll onto his right. Facing out. Facing the threats. Constant vigilance. No unguarded spine.

He gave himself an extra few hours in bed. Sipping tea while wrapped in the duvet. His muscles were still fatigued from the physio and the desk chair looked less than comfortable. Eventually though, he pushed out of the bed, showered, dressed, and made his way down to the café near Kings Cross. The weather was holding, a strange, falsely early spring. He wondered if it’d snow in the next few weeks.

Bill Murray was already there. John flinched, thinking he must be late, but he could hear the nearby clock tower sound. Perfectly on time. Military time keeping. Bill was out of the booth before John could reach him and he’d swear his ribs creaked at the force of the hug. “Look at you!”

John had to huff out a laugh. The smile on Bill’s face was impossible to ignore, and a rusty impression of a grin tugged at John’s lips. “Bill, you seem to be in decent form.”

The smile just grew. “John.” He clapped a hand on John’s good shoulder. “Goddamn. You are a sight for sore eyes, mate.”

If his expression was self-deprecatory, Bill didn’t see it. “I’m a sore sight, I’ll tell you what.”

Bill just shook his head and laughed. “Come on, sit. We’ll get some lunch.” He waited for John to sit before waving over the waiter for some menus. “God, I missed you. You have no idea how glad I am…”

“Ah, come off it,” John muttered uncomfortably. “I’m still just me…” He fanned his hands out nervously before burying his left in his lap. “Sorry about… About Christmas. I wasn’t… You know.”

“Not a worry!” Bill’s eyes were lit as he watched John and rapped his knuckles on the table.

John’s ears perked at the unusual sound and in a flash he’d noted the source. “Bill,” he shook his head. “What the bloody hell have you gone and done?”

Bill was beaming.

“Did you get married?!” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. “Who… Bill, how did you even have time to meet someone? Let alone… When did you even?”

Bill started laughing and only stopped to order them some sandwiches and sodas. “Her name is Meredith. She’s a nurse. Too. Works in the NICU. And I’ve known her for a few years. We’ve been… Well, every time I’ve been home on leave for the past two years… And. We just got sick of waiting.”

John knew his jaw was hanging open, but he was just so stunned. “I…” He shook his head. “How did I not know?”

“In your defense, none of the lads like introducing you to their lady friends.”

John snorted at the cheeky smirk Bill was giving him. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“When?”

“Just before Christmas. It was a really small ceremony. Just family.” Bill’s smile wavered. “I tried to get in touch with you, but you were just out of Birmingham, and your old emails were bouncing…”

John dropped his gaze, rubbing at a scuff on the table with his index finger. “Sorry. I…” He sighed. “Even if you’d been able to reach me, I wasn’t in much of a state… You wouldn’t have… I probably… I…”

“John,” Bill interrupted. “Mate, it’s not a big deal. It was a party. One party. There’ll be others.”

John’s nose twitched. “Oh yeah?”

“Not other weddings!” Bill burst out as John chuckled. “This is it for me. She’s it. She’s the one, man. I’m done.”

“That good, huh?”

“Wanna see a picture?” Bill was already fishing out his wallet. He handed John a candid from a night out. John let out a low whistle and flashed a proper smile. “Hey now, she’s mine, right? Fair and square. Put a ring on her and everything.” Bill tucked the photo back into his wallet.

John laughed and held his hands up in surrender. “Fair and square, mate.” Two large plates of sandwiches slid onto the table, only momentarily breaking the conversation. John considered the food, eating one or two of the chips before deciding on which half of the sandwich to start in on. “So,” he managed around a decent sized bite. “You on your way back? Furlough must nearly be done.”

“Back?” Bill raised a brow. “I’m done, John. I’m out.”

“Out?” The food froze halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean, out?”

Bill shrugged. “I told them I’d had enough. They said, ok.”

“Why?” The question seemed to escape before John could hold it back.

Bill tilted his head back and forth. “I dunno, John. It’s not fun anymore.”

“Fun?” John scoffed.

“Not fun. It’s just not… It’s not… worth it.” Bill sighed. “It’s not the same without you. Things were different. And I’m too old to deal with rotating Captains, and frankly, I don’t want to try to train a new surgeon.”

John huffed out a single laugh. “You know that’s not the order of things.”

“Sure, Captain.” Bill gave him a long look. “I guess, I had it in my head that we went through basic together, we got our marching orders together, we scrubbed together, and eventually… I dunno, we’d leave together.”

John gave a small nod.

“I’m not the only one either.” Bill dropped his gaze to address the food left on his plate. “Roach is done in a few months. He’s just training up a few replacements. Davies left when you did. Mac… I told him I was done, and he was right on board. We both got our papers on the way home to Christmas.”

John kept nodding, his head bobbing slightly as Bill spoke.

“I mean, I think even Sholto is half done.”

“What?” John whispered.

Bill made a noncommittal sound. “He’s still the best I’ve seen, but he just. It seems like his heart isn’t in it.”

John freed his tongue from between his teeth. “So you all really missed me,” he said wryly.

“Course we did.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t the firm conviction in Bill’s voice. And John found himself taking a few deeper breaths than planned. “Bill. I… I never got a chance to thank you.” He gave a solid nod, gathered his thoughts, and looked up at his friend. “You saved my life.”

“Turn about is fair play, mate.” Bill smiled.

“You… You shot through a building,” John said exasperatedly.

“Yeah, and you minded us through the whole McKenna debacle.” Bill tapped his index finger off the table a few times. “None of us would have made it out without you.”

John shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

“Exaggeration.”

“Accurate.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Also true.” Bill smiled. “And you’re a right git.”

“What are you planning to do now?”

“Heading home,” Bill said wistfully.

“Home?”

“Leeds.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

”I’ve a new bride, a new job, and something that might be a home once the boxes are unpacked.” He nodded excitedly. “Once we get the place squared away, you’ll come visit.”

John snorted. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Meredith has friends, John.”

They both laughed. The conversation drifted into slightly safer territory after that. John listened as Bill described his new job, the starter house, what life in Leeds was like now. They talked about the news, about the times, about anything and everything other than the war. And when Bill had to duck off to catch his next train, John was sad to see him go. They exchanged mobile numbers. John promised that they’d do a night out the next time Bill was in London. Bill promised a proper invitation when the house was settled. And Bill headed back into the station. And John hobbled home, trying to be glad for Bill. Trying to, but wondering if Bill was all talk, if Bill had avoided mentioning John’s injury because he simply couldn’t stand to look at it, if Bill hadn’t asked him how he was doing because he knew already and was ashamed. John wanted to crawl in a hole and die. He was halfway there before he realized he’d eaten the whole plate of food.

The next morning, John made a concerted effort to make a blog entry. Ella wouldn’t be able to say he’d done nothing. Four sentences about current events. Four sentences about his lunch. One sentence to point out the stupidity of the entire exercise. He was glad he didn’t have anywhere to be.

_He was held back. Pinned down. Submerged in icy water and drowned. His head was tugged free for him to gasp in a breath as Malcolm kicked in a gate, a booby-trapped gate, it was going to explode, detonate into the man’s face as the mines exploded together and set the field aflame and Hughes on fire. John screamed and was dunked into the black again. Choking and sputtering. Suffocating._

_He yelped as his neck was wrenched up. As Dawson was shot and killed. As Adams was left to bleed out in the middle of a square and Scotty took out a half dozen squad mates before shooting himself and Art was eviscerated and left with no one to shove his guts back in. He flailed and howled and pulled his shoulder from its socket only to be plunged into the icy dark. His lungs burned and his throat shuddered and he vomited out water before he could suck in some air._

_Nate. Not Nate. Not again. He screamed. He thrashed and wailed and struggled through the cold and ice and drowning. He was always drowning. And if he wasn’t so dizzy, if he wasn’t held so fast, he could get there. He could stop this. Stop it. STOP IT!_

_And through it all, over the bullets and bombs, he could hear James yelling for him. Calling him. The tone he’d only heard the day he was shot. It was angry and panicked and desperate. And it was one of the only times he’d regretted hearing his name on the Major’s lips. Without him there, the sniper wouldn’t have missed. Wouldn’t have only clipped James on the ricochet. He’d have had him with a clean headshot. And his mind supplied the image. Just how it would have looked. How it would have sounded. Without him. John screamed. He thrashed against the restraint, but McKenna had a forearm across his throat and he couldn’t break free. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t reach him. John yelled as the trigger was pulled. He screamed as it found its home. He screamed and screamed until his voice was gone and the sniper was fixed on Roach._

John snapped awake, throwing himself upright and curling forward. It was dark. Again. Dark was bad. Dark was in a building. Dark was being taken. Dark was death. His head jerked backwards and he panted up at the ceiling. He blinked, sucked in a few short breaths and tried to blink again, bringing his surroundings into focus. Not desert metal roof, not dirt and concrete walls. The distant thunder drained away to leave the rather bleak stucco of the bedsit in the pre-dawn light. It wasn’t even raining. The rumbling was only in his head.

He held an exhale. He wouldn’t vomit. No. His left shoulder twinged from the jolt he’d given it and he let himself drop miserably onto his back. Pillow. Sheet. Radiator. Carpet. Curtains. London. He sucked in a shaky breath and blew it out between his lips, trying to count in his head. Was it supposed to be in for five and out for three? Out for five and in in for three? He heaved another breath and the tail end caught in his throat, pitching the sound high and desperate. He bit back tears. It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. He was in London.

The muscles in his face pulled as he smothered the urge to cry. He couldn’t do that again. He didn’t have the energy. If he started, he’d never stop. He heaved another breath, held it until it burned in his lungs and let it free. He ignored the trembling in his left hand. He ignored the itch and pull at the scar on his right forearm. He made himself look at the desk, look at the curtains, the lamp, the things that marked the room as civilian, as safe, as dull. He made himself breathe, breathe until the violent twisting in his stomach subsided, until the tightness in his throat relaxed, until his eyes only burned from exhaustion, until he felt in control. And he knew he wasn’t going back to sleep.

When he was sure his legs would hold him, he stood, made the bed with precision, read the paper and refolded it, straightened the books, and still found it before sunup. He sat on the edge of his bed, clenching his hands between his thighs, either to keep them still or to ease the cramp in his leg or to keep from tearing the room into tatters. Whatever companionable pleasure he’d found from lunch with Bill, he was now clearly in the reciprocal melancholy and he was beginning to doubt the prudence of the small allowance. He was beginning to doubt his decision to turn down a sleep aid, though no one in their right mind would give him one now and Ella didn’t like him enough to turn a blind eye.

The limp was worse. He’d expected it, but glad to find himself prophetic as he struggled to shower and clean himself. He couldn’t stomach a full meal, but whatever had possessed him to buy all that fruit… He’d manage an apple. And a cup of tea. What was the phrase? An apple a day keeps the doctor away? Maybe he could choke on a piece and avoid Ella. Probably not. He wasn’t that lucky.

He forced himself to ignore his pistol as he tugged out the laptop. This morning, he found himself under estimating the value of a bullet and the further he stayed from the ritual, the better off. He winced as he read the comments between Bill and Harry. It seemed that she’d given up on texting and emails, and would now be quite satisfied to leave short comments with excessive punctuation on his blog. If she couldn’t be arsed to go one meal, ONE MEAL without wine, then he had no interest in responding to her drunken missives. He stared at the blank page and wondered how cross Ella was going to be if he didn’t write something now. In his defense, he was up to four posts for the month. Granted, one was asking how to take the damn thing down. But it was better than nothing.

He forced himself to drink the tea. He forced himself to dress properly. And he forced himself out the door and across town to his appointment. He should have been glad for the excuse to leave the flat. It was horrid. It was empty. But fuck, he was empty.

Ella had this irritating habit of sitting squarely opposite him during their sessions. It was confrontational. He refused to sit at attention; she wasn’t his commanding officer so why bother. If she was trying to mirror the military in her approach, she needed better training, and better wallpaper. He was never able to sit still. He used to pride himself in the ability to maintain parade attention for hours, and just five minutes in this woman’s office and he had to fidget. Maybe if only to hide the twitching in his hand. If he was always moving that hand, it wasn’t a tremor.

She asked about the blog. As if she didn’t check it herself. And comment when he didn’t answer his phone. He picked at the arm of the chair absently. Then he lied. “Yeah good.” He cleared his throat. “Very good.” He was a rubbish liar.

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”

That wasn’t accurate. He’d written an entire post just the other day. Nine sentences in three paragraphs. There were four comments in response. Four question marks and twelve exclamation points. Not that anyone else wanted to read it. Not that anyone would be interested in what he had to say. Not that he had anything to actually write about. Mentioning the news and stating that you saw an old army mate is not interesting. “You just wrote ‘Still has trust issues.’”

“And you read my writing upside down.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Of course he read her writing upside down. She could write it in Morse code and he’d be able to read it. Three additional European languages, poor Latin and Greek, military and medical jargon, and fucking semaphore. He wouldn’t pretend to be an idiot. And he certainly wouldn’t pretend that she knew what he was struggling with. Or that she cared.

“Do you see what I mean?”

The twitch morphed into a grim half smile. It was an acknowledgement, it wasn’t acceptance, and it certainly wasn’t something that pleased him. He bit his tongue.

“John, you’re a soldier.”

Was a soldier.

“And it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life.”

What life? He suppressed a sigh. Maybe he should have worn the oatmeal jumper as camouflage.

“And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”

He found himself railing against so many parts of her statement, including but not limited to the point that writing a blog would do anything, that there was honestly any help for him, and most of all that there was anything to write about. After guns and grenades and sand and surgery, mentioning a weekly shop was just so pointless. He should just delete the entire fucking thing. Delete it so that no one has to waste their time with it. It’s empty anyway. Too bad it wouldn’t be as easy to just delete his own futile consumption of oxygen. Nothing seemed to come of it. Nothing left to give. He surprised himself with how well he disciplined his expression. His voice was far more measured that he’d planned. “Nothing happens to me.” And it was the truth, wasn’t it? Events of his life were slotted into three easy categories: Things that were his fault, Things that were fall out from things that were his fault, and the stillness in between.

It effectively ended the session. John was done talking, and he was essentially done glowering. He was just too tired for it. Ella had asked him to write again. John nodded absently; it wasn’t an agreement. Now he just wanted to leave. He didn’t want to face off against anyone for the next few days. He didn’t want to have someone look at the little broken pieces he was made of and feel sorry for him. He needed to go lick his wounds and regroup and find that balance point between sinking and floating. Halfway between life and death. Limbo.

He limped out of Ella’s office and tried to be glad of the early spring, but the overcast glare just made him squint as the afternoon stretched out in front of him, empty and lonely and caustic. Disappointing. His leg tugged in a sympathetic spasm of pain and he tensed at his reflexive flare of anger. He put his head down and stormed toward the park at a punishing pace. There was nothing wrong with his leg. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just… Just…

“John!”

He was just being…

“John Watson!”

What? John drew up short, pivoting on his good leg. He was bracing for impact. Balancing. Reinforcing. Rapidly collecting the broken bits and throwing on armor. He’d been in London for months without running into someone he knew. Without someone recognizing him. And the shorter, bespectacled man wearing a horrid striped tie and broad smile was certainly not someone he’d expected to see.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford,” the man continued, either oblivious to John’s tension or purposefully disregarding it. “We were at Bart’s together.”

It took John a moment to catch up to the social niceties. To lower his hackles enough to respond. He knew who Mike was. It was off-putting that Mike seemed somehow happy to see him. Last time he’d seen Mike had been just after graduation, and if his memory served, he’d been less than cordial with his classmates. He hadn’t been in a particularly affable state of mind at the time. Then again, he wasn’t now. Maybe that’s what made him recognizable. Weapons down, Watson. “Yes, sorry. Yes, Mike.” He had to shift the damn cane into his left hand before he took the hand offered and shook it. “Hello, hi.” He sounded forced even in his own ears.

“Yeah, I know. I got fat!” Mike said with a grin.

“No.” Was that convincing? Was that socially appropriate? He supposed that Mike was a bit fatter, but nothing unexpected. Nothing that wouldn’t be common amongst his classmates at this point. Probably just in comparison to himself, to the loss of size, loss of mass. He was actually a shadow of his former fitness and for a moment, he wished for the pleasant frame that Mike had clearly acquired through comfort and a slight casual disregard. At least he wasn’t smoking anymore.

“I heard you abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

It wasn’t a jibe. It wasn’t meant to be rude. Mike had spent a good deal of time prying his foot out of his mouth when they were at Uni. He just had an innocent bluntness to him. A bit of naivety. Brilliant doctor, but oblivious, John thought wryly. He couldn’t keep from frowning at the cane. “I got shot,” John answered flatly.

Mike’s expression wavered. It was the same look he’d seen a hundred times. A barely concealed wince. A moment of regret as a word escaped. He’d become intimately familiar with it in Birmingham when he’d refused to respond to ‘Captain’ any longer. Someone that knew they’d prodded an open wound and however innocently done, it still sent a jolt of pain. Mike recovered quickly, through years of practice with similar non-sequiturs. “I’d hate to see the other guys.” The broad smile was back on his face and without missing a beat, he drew John back in. “Coffee? I know a great place just around the corner. My treat. I haven’t seen you in about a decade!”

It was conversational whiplash. And after a few months of stony silence, grumbles, and angry stares, John really couldn’t find the words to do anything but nod in agreement. “Yeah, alright.”

He didn’t need to struggle to keep pace with Mike as they headed for the café, and John wondered if it had more to do with his cane than Mike’s rather leisurely life tempo. But the steady chatter about the rise and fall of local coffee shops and baristas occupied the distance there and back to a bench. John sardonically wondered if Mike spent as much time working as he did out for lunch. That wasn’t fair. And Mike was noticing how gaunt he looked, and Mike’s expression was bordering on concerned again, and the two short hops to pity were looming darkly down the conversational line. “Are you still at Bart’s then?” Mike had taken up a training post there after graduation, John remembered that much. He felt stiff, rusty in his social skills.

“Teaching now.” Mike answered. “Bright young things, like we used to be.” A smile flickered at the corner of John’s mouth at the nostalgic tone. “God, I hate them!” John snorted. There was the Mike he remembered. Sarcastic, slightly irreverent, witty. “What about you? Just staying in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?” Astute.

What _was_ he actually doing? He was… just. “I can’t afford London on an Army pension.” There. Cold hard fact. He’d have to address that soon.

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.” Sharp. “That’s not the John Watson I know.”

It felt like a slap in the face. Like someone else could ever tell him who he really was. He started to pull into attention. “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” Over the dull throb of his leg, his left shoulder gave a scream of displeasure and his hand shuddered. He quickly shifted the coffee to his right hand and tried to flex out the spasm with a miserable fury. It didn’t escape his notice that Mike glanced away, pitiable privacy in the face of his crippled life. It didn’t escape his notice that Mike hadn’t asked about jobs.

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

He didn’t know if it was purposeful distraction, but John clung to the question like a lifeline. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

The innocent expression was back on Mike’s face. “I don’t know. Get a flatshare or something?”

“Come on,” he heard himself object. Out of habit. Out of self-defense. Out of self-preservation and the smallest sliver of remaining pride. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?” Broken. Small. Useless. Me. Mike chuckled and John felt his brows twitch. Mike was not that shifty. Or. He never used to be that shifty. “What?”

Mike smiled pleasantly. “You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

The question fell out before he could stop himself. “Who was the first?”

“Ah, this fellow I know from Bart’s.”

John tilted his head.

“Bit of an odd sort of bloke. But…”

John watched Mike’s expression glimmer into something he couldn’t quite pin down. “Odd?”

Mike’s smile returned. “Tell you what. I’ve another hour before lecture. Come round to Bart’s with me. I’ll show you round the new digs and I’m pretty sure I have his number in my office somewhere.”

John chewed on his lower lip for a moment. It wasn’t as though he had any plans. His afternoon was empty. Empty. Lonely. Drab. Worst that could happen was his nightmares decided to torture him over his Uni days instead of the Army. Maybe it’d be a refreshing thing to jolt awake at the image of his fiancée in a casket instead of his mates. He shook the dark thought from his head. “Alright. Sure.”

Mike brought him to Bart’s, in through the bowels of the hospital to an odd back corridor where the offices were. And then the tour started. A decade of upgrades and renovations had done the place a world of good. Technology and organization winning out over the Victorian tradition of the place. Mike seemed particularly interested in showing John his lab. “Bit of research, mostly some projects for the undergrads. Making sure they know how to do all the silly little things we struggled with as well.” Mike grinned as though watching the students prep their own gels brought a very particular pleasure to his life. Then he rapped on a door and pushed it open. “Here we are.”

John limped in, listening to the click of the cane against the tiles. The place looked smooth, sterile while used, oddly cluttered. Updated fume hoods, clean microscopes, hotplates and centrifuges. Even the taps were painted white. Modern. “Well, bit different from my day.” He mentally ticked off another place that he no longer belonged.

Mike made his way down one of the benches, “You’ve no idea!”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

John glanced down the length of the bench. Ok, very different from his day. For starters, no one he’d ever worked with titrated out buffers in a Savile Row suit. He’d have thought the man didn’t belong, but the sleek jacket seemed well at home amongst the contemporary upgrades in the lab. Belonging in a way that made him wonder if it wasn’t some sort of fashionable camouflage combined with stillness that made it possible for John to overlook the man when he first entered. Well, didn’t he feel underdressed? And he certainly wasn’t going to overlook the man now.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” It sounded as though Mike had been through the same debate before. Clearly they knew each other.

“I prefer to text.”

John could understand that. Something clear in the black and white of words.

“Sorry.” Mike didn’t sound terribly sorry. “It’s in my coat.”

Well, social niceties had been ignored long enough. “Er, here.” John dug into his pocket to retrieve his mobile. “Use mine.”

“Oh.” The man seemed the tiniest bit surprised at the offer. “Thank you.” He started towards John, his eyes flicking briefly to Mike.

“Old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike offered by way of introduction.

John held out the phone with a polite smile rather than the hand on his cane. He had just met the man. Sort of. Actually, he hadn’t. Mike didn’t introduce the man, and that was… odd. Out of courtesy, John put a brief hold on the conversation he and Mike were in the middle of, shifting his stance as the man flicked the phone open. Now that he had the chance, he was doubting his initial assessment; those weren’t buffers on the light plate at the far end of the bench.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man rumbled.

John froze. What? The man was busy typing away on the mobile; he didn’t even seem to be paying attention to the room at large. John glanced at Mike; maybe he had misheard. Maybe he was imaging things. Maybe Mike had set him up. And what was that look on Mike’s face? The oddly shifty smile was back. Mike wasn’t shifty. Was he? John felt his feet squarely on the ground as he turned toward the man. “Sorry?”

The man’s head swiveled, his fingers only pausing for a moment as he looked at John. “Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

There was something in that glance. Something sharp. Something seeing. John opened his mouth to suck in a breath and hesitated. He wasn’t hearing things. Mike might have been putting him on though. Mike was wearing a wider smile. But it wasn’t devious. It had been a moment too long, and John felt pause like a weight on his shoulders. “Afghanistan.” He shifted as the door at his back opened. “Sorry, how did you…”

The phone was snapped shut and handed back rather unceremoniously as the man’s attention is diverted again. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.”

John stood, blinking, gears turning slowly. It felt as though someone had given him a shake. He straightened his spine, ignoring the person that crossed behind him. No, not ignoring, dismissing. Small. Timid. Non-threatening.

“What happened to the lipstick?”

“It wasn’t working for me,” came the small reply. John cast a quick glance to his side. Correct assessment. Add in the lab coat. Probably works here. PhD student? Medic? Something simple? Breathe. He took a breath as he planted the phone back in his pocket. How long had he been holding that like an idiot?

“Really?” the man started back down the bench. “I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”

Flippant. John didn’t miss the small wince at the flavor of the coffee.

“Ok.”

She passed behind him again. He forced his arms to stay relaxed at his side rather than clenched behind his back where they belonged.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

His head turned slightly, expecting the girl to answer, but she seemed oblivious. He listened to her move. Heard the creak of the door as it was pulled open and her small footsteps outside. Odd. John glanced at Mike who seemed to be watching him just as curiously. Then Mike gave him a lop-sided smile. Oh? Oh. The question was directed at him. He shifted again, squaring front, balancing his weight carefully. “I’m sorry, what?”

Whatever he was typing didn’t stop as he spoke again. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” even as he turned to look at John, the fingers continued their typing. John actually wondered how many blog entries he could manage if he were as accomplished a typist. “Would that bother you?” John blinked, but the man didn’t stop. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

Then there was the smile. John had seen smiles like that before. They weren’t real. He had given people smiles like that. He had mastered them. Convincing people he still knew how to express something. Seeing it presented so artfully gave him pause. It was like a self-aware sham. It took a moment before John realized how still he’d become. Flatmates? Right. Mike had brought it up. Mike had set this up. This was the little smirking pride on Mike’s face since they’d walked into the room. Now it made sense. No threat. Mike being an idiot. He blinked and glanced at Mike. “Oh. You… You told him about me.”

Mike needed to put down the Phenolphthalein. It made him look too comical: wide eyes, innocent expression, pink sample flask. “Not a word.”

Ok. Not Mike. Mike wasn’t an actor. “Then who said anything about flatmates?” He planted himself firmly again. Anticipating.

“I did.” He collected a coat from the chair. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.” He shrugged into the sleeves and turned as he spoke. “Now, here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

John clenched his jaw and swallowed. He wanted to know then. If Mike hadn’t said, then how? He wasn’t in his fatigues. He wasn’t wearing his tags. He wasn’t tattooed. He wasn’t talking about the Army. He wasn’t even in Army company. So how? He glanced down, addressing the question to the bench rather than the odd man. “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

He was looking at his phone, bundled up to head outside into weather far colder than the spring like afternoon. John wondered if he’d grown immune to cold again. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London.” He checked his mobile, clearly disappointed to find a continued poor signal. “Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He made his way toward the door, pausing briefly to address John directly, rather than the room at large, or the bench, or the phone, or whatever or whomever he’d been conversing with for the duration of his posh, public school life. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John didn’t miss the comical wince on the man’s face. He didn’t miss the slight flicker of unease as he nearly, but only nearly brushed past his shoulder on the way to the door. He didn’t miss that the man had ignored his one and only question, now asked twice. He wasn’t an idiot. And he didn’t like being treated like a child. “Is that it?” John turned slowly toward the door, catching him before he could open it.

“Is that what?”

John wasn’t going to be cowed by someone swirling in a big coat. If there was an edge to his voice, he didn’t care. “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go look at a flat?”

The man broke first, glancing at Mike then back. “Problem?”

The smile John cast at Mike was more of an apology than amusement. Mike had never seen him in Army mode. Mike hadn’t been privy to the full on rage he was capable of. And Mike had never really seen John threatened. When he turned back to the man, John decided on stating the obvious. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.” Weren’t the gentry supposed to have manners?

The man stared at John for several seconds. It was an unwavering gaze that sought to pick apart the defects in his armor and see everything. It was a resolution, direct and bold and purposeful, pinning back each woefully inadequate shield with the flick of an eye to dissect. And in the face of such intensity, John did the only thing he knew how. He steeled himself, stilled himself, and stared back. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help, because you don’t approve of him—possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.”

John felt the calm ebb from him, slowly leached to make room for a horrified wonder as the man continued.

“And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic.”

He cracked first and turned to glance down at the cane, clutched white-knuckle in right hand. Son-of-a-bitch.

“Quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

Was that a low blow or just a very accurate one? He shifted at the burning behind his knee.

“That’s enough to be going on with?” he continued rather smugly, shifting his weight toward the door and somehow passing through without breaking eye contact. “Don’t you think?”

John pursed his lips, desperately torn between being ragingly pissed off and somewhat awestruck. Between feeling rubbed raw and feeling… Well… Seen. That was frighteningly, stupidly, admirably accurate. And somehow, the anger wasn’t strong enough to fight his curiosity. And the sensation burned through the fog. All of the wanting out, now there was somewhere to go. Strange.

The man paused mid-exit and leaned back into the lab. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. And the address is two-two-one B Baker Street.”

The wink sealed it. John knew an act when he saw one. And for all that bluster, the wink and grin was hiding something else. Something that sent a small pulse of adrenaline through his body. Something that had him standing straight and still. Something that pulled him out of his own head and demanded his attention. It was refreshing. It seemed an afterthought when the man, when Sherlock Holmes called afternoon to Mike, and Mike just raised a finger in farewell. John watched the door shut, turned to Mike, full attention, full alert. “Yup,” Mike nodded. “He’s always like that.”

John blinked at the door. And this was the man that Mike thought he should live with? Strange. He shifted between the wide stance he’d given himself and the cane. Shifted, blinked and steadied himself. It felt like fresh air, like a rush of blood to his head. It felt like daylight. He felt like a spring that was being coiled. Breathe. He could breathe. And he felt… Ready.

~o~

[All These Things That I've Done - Playlist](http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/114845502903/ewebie-in-celebration-for-the-upcoming-final)


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